When a number appears before the letter ‘G’
I say: “Gee, better stay clear
G stands for the rajas and ranis who’ve caused all this gooby dirt"
Now I hear '3 G' - and fear the worst:
Dirt, dirt and more dirt
But Lo! Am I wrong
You are folks I see clear Dirt
Your dirt
My Dirt
The-guys- who-spill-and spew-out-of-buses’ dirt
3 G, you grubby Dirt Cleaners, you noble brats of Goa
Do you even know what you’ve done?
Cleaned Goa? Cleaned her beaches? Cleaned her soul?
Far, far more, dear brats
Your biggest clean up job is – me
Your hands are busy, your fingers nimble
Doing something that relates to birds - or the sounds they make
(Darned! I never can get my head around all these new whatchamacallits your generation does all the time)
Yet those hands are on Goa, her beaches, her once-forested hills, her rivers
Those hands cradle, tenderly mend this hurt and bleeding land
Injured by us
- the Generation Greedy
- And those magnificent men in their cars
Cars that flaunt our national flag
And their power over this land and her people
Your eyes are before screens and monitors –always – so we believe
Yet you see things we don’t see
Things on a beach
Or a river
Dirty, yucky things
Your ears are stuffed with another of those new thingammies – again all the time
Yet you hear what we don’t hear
- The cries of a wounded, dying land
I say: “Gee, better stay clear
G stands for the rajas and ranis who’ve caused all this gooby dirt"
Now I hear '3 G' - and fear the worst:
Dirt, dirt and more dirt
But Lo! Am I wrong
You are folks I see clear Dirt
Your dirt
My Dirt
The-guys- who-spill-and spew-out-of-buses’ dirt
3 G, you grubby Dirt Cleaners, you noble brats of Goa
Do you even know what you’ve done?
Cleaned Goa? Cleaned her beaches? Cleaned her soul?
Far, far more, dear brats
Your biggest clean up job is – me
Your hands are busy, your fingers nimble
Doing something that relates to birds - or the sounds they make
(Darned! I never can get my head around all these new whatchamacallits your generation does all the time)
Yet those hands are on Goa, her beaches, her once-forested hills, her rivers
Those hands cradle, tenderly mend this hurt and bleeding land
Injured by us
- the Generation Greedy
- And those magnificent men in their cars
Cars that flaunt our national flag
And their power over this land and her people
Your eyes are before screens and monitors –always – so we believe
Yet you see things we don’t see
Things on a beach
Or a river
Dirty, yucky things
Your ears are stuffed with another of those new thingammies – again all the time
Yet you hear what we don’t hear
- The cries of a wounded, dying land
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