Retards, I say to them,
As they, today, spit on your staccato name
And your balls they wanna sling
In a bid to unlearn the praises they’d sing
When you used to sing their song. Today, Lasith Slinga
Or Malinga, (to SLC, the
One without any linga)
On post-Gota’s War Paradise Isle
I am the only friend you have
So, you better take me with or
Without a slanted arm; for, the others,
They have deemed you blond. You’ve lost your charm.
They say you give head to IPL
And that you are a non-patriotic deal
Who, at one point, lion-like pretended to yell
Every time to a Slinga yoker the middle stump fell.
Should you work, Malinga, — I am serious —
Like a spineless slave who has no
Genius to boot, to a bureaucracy that scrapes off
The good off guys like you, and fuck you without paying
In a three piece suit?
Like, knowing well what a heap of
Walking platinum you are, to look up
The Cricket Board steps at walking trash
Making the players pay for their kicks
While offering us watery, occasional licks?
“Play for the country — country before self”.
“Country first, country second, country third”.
“No greater glory than playing for the nation”.
Bitch please — say it, man, you original, charismatic
Improvising little giant: say it to these
Foolish retards to hang on tight
To their stupid cliches; that geniuses, now at last,
Will be deciding who’s bowling fast.
The news is that the Cricket Board
At the Windies is finally ready
To have a bargain with Gayle.
Moby Dick in fact’s the other name for the whale.