The small town I was born in

A poem

1.

This small piece-of-shit town,

By a succession of legislative decrees,

Is now to be the ruin of an empire,

only historians know the name of.

2. 

The eastern walls of the government ward,

Where my mother gave birth to me,

Practically unassisted,

Had actually been disembarkation points

For the Mughal rappelers.

3.

I go around the ward every day,

Informing screaming unmedicated mothers,

About the Mughal rappelers.

4.

I assist the young surveyors trying to find the ruins too.

I sell them three bottles of cheap rum,

And massage their backs

As they down the bottles in gulps.

5.

You see,

the old empire is visible only to good alcoholics,

And bad poets,

But definitely not to alcoholic poets (no one keeps the truth from their kind).

6.

On the verge of cirrhosis,

Your mind will clasp the nationalist utopia,

the old empire,

Which if you ask is a marked improvement in stature,

From the cesspool I spent my life in,

Where the only imperial thing that happened around me,

Was watching Shyju punch the shit out of a stray dog for stealing our only leather ball too many times.