Royal Sarcasm

It's not Tariff, on us, they impose,

It's notion,“They are Lords”, we suppose.

It's not the medals, we don't earn—their Ring,

It's the grief, losing the games, of 'Exalted King'.

Not the clothes are 'Odd', coins we spend,

Ours attire, not alike 'Admired', we repent.

Nectar pours in, even the hoarse they say,

Words out our tongue, smell worst, don't they?

Brutals we are! Culture we own—vulgar!

Not as us 'Lords', but divine, even smugglers.

Race of 'Kings': Scared!—resembles their crown,

Feels blushy we, seems 'Beloved's hymn', 

As 'Lords' scorn, ”Ye black!, Ye brown!”

Hallowed their voice! Gorgeous their slang!

Throw in the bin the patois—still we clang!

They are 'Chiefs', mustn't reign from the roof?

And we? Soiled slaves? Same as mule's hoof.

Golds of our sand, 'Lords' deserve, Period!

Protest! Thou do! Terrorist you—idiot!

On the gulf of oil, sole the 'Chief's Brigs sail,

Of us? Cursed thralls? Steering Sloop? We fail.

'Royals' swim in sea, of wealth and courage,

We bustards do spree, in search of mirage.

How they seek and pick, seems to you thiefs?

'Barbaric' suits you and 'Bountiful' the 'Chiefs'!

Irony! Irony! Ain't I cracking jokes?

Who say our Mango-groves below their Oaks?

And place Cauldron apex, In nadir our Crocks?

Is it God? Nay, Indeed—'False Lords'

Of pinnacle we obey, though abuse us,

Ye dream of thriving in, how will ye? Thus?

Foul and gross!—They appraise our norm,

Cut in straw, 'Big Nests'—We ever did form.

By ours sweat and blood, 'King-Manor' is grown,

Once we had large map, they made it torn.

Shedding blood, mounting corpse—they emerge,

“Monsters ye are, learn ethics”, they surge.

Sure, the wisdom they have, enormous, we yet,

But nothing in our faith, for what to regret.

We didn't put off 'The Serfdom's Coat',

Yet 'Lord's Puppies', then left on road.

We're thrown on street, our begging hands filthy,

But the flame of freedom—igniting in thee.

To fascinate their soul, trained us for stunt,

Won't escape this curse, unless we hunt.

The Claymore in your heart, if ye unleash,

'Mad King's' wild brute, must come to cease.

Neither I'm terror, nor I say lie,

Unveilings demons, for the earth still sigh.

No longer world cry, though drops glands bear,

For 'Circus' love the play of 'Crocodile's tear'.

It's time to alter, no more bear the 'Yoke',

Turn luminous yourselves, ye hands of the Clock.

Be the verse of Ballad, high time wrote,

Ye won't mere vote, attempt to pivot.

Murmurs ain't heard, need the uproar,

To regain lost pride, don't look for Crore.