Like Transcom was rushing into my gut and popping bubbles of sleep,
They succeed in

I want to.

I want to hear a hell yeah.
I want to hear a তুমি এতো ভালো লেখো কিভাবে?
তুমি এতো ভালো কিভাবে লেখো?
I want to hear a hell yeah,
I want to hear আমি কিভাবে জানবো?
আমি কিভাবে জানবো?
But no you will not sing because the streaks of my hair cry pretension
And I am not at the board of the BGMEA takin’ to the table like Mahfuz Anams’ editorials
Wearing white coats with full blown honors from my days at the bayous of chittagong
Putting Pakistani niggers into coffers draped by the rising sun.

Sing when Fakrul Alam’s dinosaurs creep along the edge of page and drop into the snickers of Kaiser’s moustache.

Sing, Like Yeah,
When you will feel it is your duty to point the inconsistencies in my language, to where I belong,

Sing and grin in satisfaction,
And make that smile dive into my panties, roll it around;
Moisturize,
Imprison it in all my vices like Muhammad Biral segueing into jail bars.

Who pays ?

Pepsi: that drink that’s too sweet to be coke, and too good to be good.
KFC: antibiotics in a walking bird
L’O’real: repeat after me: when they are not busy supplying the IDF with goody bags, they are busy admitting that their founder was a Nazi.
Novo Nordisk: tax dodgers
Nestle: Milky Bars, Sweetarts, Wonkas, bottle caps, oh Henry’s, Pepper Mint Crisp, Kit Kats (except in United States, where it belongs to Hershey’s) Aeroes, Allens, Mirage, Bellagios all on the backs of slave children in the Ivory Coast.

Gemcon-

B.A.L, street talk,

Look at me, look at me,
Eyes are free, what do you see?
Bulging wardrobes
Festive glee,
Selling blindfolds,

From revenue Plantations
To mathematical tones implying
Mathematical drones of spinach-strengthened models
Handing out social security checks.

Economists at hire,
Ngo-wallahs leaping like festoons to pen op-eds across my gastronomy:
Gnawing with jaws hawking donations.

Sing like when you’re days at the communist party were numbered,
Because at Paltan, they thought you were greeting salvos with roses,
Smack. Smack.
But you were busy plotting coups with embassy fire hoses,

Sing because when god said “prothom”
You whisked you’re self into Nazrul,
And thought “alo” like classrooms full of dunces.

So ask me again: তুমি এতো ভালো লেখো কিভাবে?

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