I a Pissing Bengali Man
A raw and provocative doggerel that serves as a brutally honest self-portrait of a Bengali man. This poem is a scathing critique of cultural myths, political disillusionment, and societal decay in modern Bengal.
7/28/2025
My bengali piss will do shit,
But the rules I let the flow flout.
As the piss hits the dust, it must,
Do a "game changer" on the cloggy clout.
Or not, but the day is hot,
I a pissing bengali man stand corrupt.
I am poor, I am jealous, and depraved,
And trust me, morally bankrupt.
As is usual with untalented fools, I drool,
Droopy my eyes like a sage.
Hunched back race, a grimaced face,
Character stitched from inveterate rage.
Gratuitous fights very common sights,
I really have nothing better to do.
Plastic and shit in rice, high-fives,
Bengali girls now fatter obstructing view.
My skin color is inferior, ironically it has more,
Of what the superior skin has less.
I am diabetic, consumptive, full of shit,
I have a typical proud bengali face.
Abstention dignified, I like shit fried,
Needs unmet, the hidden bedroom deeds.
I spy speculative fucks in garbage trucks,
The blood clots where it bleeds.
I have no ambition, but my thoughts are big,
I'm horny and distressfully diseased.
I don't really know where I'm going,
Direction is treasonous to my creed.
I elected "red", "hand", "sapling", "lotus",
Always found my ass in a "win-win" gape.
My asshole is now so fucking huge,
You can't seal it with an ordinary tape.
Rice pullers and crypto, honesty on tiptoe,
You get scammed just existing in bengal.
Jobless engineers huddle in call centers,
To scam naive americans who call.
Sandy cunts, deceased, diseased dicks,
Rule by rhetoric, theft and glib con.
They talk about the good old days,
But holy shit, those days are fuck gone.
For treason fucks dragged to prison,
Ought to be the justice of the lands.
But in India, a democracy in name only,
Kleptocracy garlanded as it stands.
In fact it's the honest that's harassed,
Incarcerated many who can't be muzzled.
One day I'll be murdered just because,
As a bengali I am so totally puzzled.
The "next level" pus from my anus,
Thus dribble animus ad-infinitum.
I swear the stench is bad enough,
Worms unwholesome itch the rectum.
My turds are heavy with worry,
I have nightmares within nightmares.
On heaven and earth corruption is rife,
Bullshit easy on busy thoroughfares.
A flaccid cock on a disenchanted rock,
Not even a rounded bengali miss.
I can't imagine someone will eat a fish,
Soaked with lonely miseries in my piss.
Philosophy used to be my fantasy forte,
But my recollection is no longer good.
These days the treatment I get is bad,
As is the quality of prepared food.
People really hate my old fashioned balls,
They want to throw me in the fire.
The country and state are sold to crooks,
The condition of the Indian is filthy dire.
So I piss, I piss and think, about the stink,
About how everything changed.
How rotten things have gotten inside,
But shiny on the surface as arranged.
We stuff our fat fuck faces with food,
But shit ungratefully in that same plate.
By Kali it looks like khichiri with ghee,
Bengali piss is yellow but sweet in taste.
Yes bengalis once led the warring world,
Now we lag behind the lowest laggards.
It's not even safe to open your mouth,
Unless you like swallowing fartsy turds.
Now the smallest penis in the proscenium,
On the Indian stage or the globe.
A Bengali is an incurable pissy penury,
Suspect as smugglers needing anal probe.
Went from british clerks to all-round jerks,
The bengalis are convinced they're best.
The least of exertions, they queue up for,
An afternoon of complete and total rest.
Belligerent cunts and bickering grunts,
Makes throats hoarse and thorny dry.
The theater for pulpit and stage.
It helps we enjoy lowlifes and their lie.
Land of poets, now of double dacoits,
Even rabindranath's nobel was stolen.
People entertained by cuckolds in soaps,
Anger expressed in quick jerky semen.
Bose counted photons, now many tons,
Of turds strewn around, we call "us".
The bengali superiority is a myth of sorts,
A multiplying festering inbreeding pus.
Raja Ram Mohan Roy would throw up,
If he came back to the polluted today.
He'd find a sky brown like people's poop,
There's not much for him to do or say.
Constipated and hot, we shit a lot,
The holy rivers a witness to the feat.
The people and poop go to the afterlife,
Passengers on a "make in india" seat.
Oversupply of invisible gods at the helm,
Or their mustachioed political goons.
The people maybe educated to a degree,
But act silly like little demented cartoons.
Like a herd of sheep the sheepish heed,
To the only strident acrimonious shrill.
They bend over and present their ass,
Are presented with the fucked-forever pill.
They join the ranks, full of shit and thanks,
For the empty promises that are made.
Bleeding from their ass they limp,
The true bengalis are all long dead.
*game-changer, win-win, next-level and various other loser compound word pairs have slipped into the fledgling Indian vocabulary, making it sound even more fucked up than it needs to be.