Sunday, 2 December 2012

A sarcastic poem on the Bangalore Auto Driver

Bangalore auto driver moves like king of streets
In the middle of the road, abruptly he turns
To find an elusive passenger, blocking traffic he glides
Listening to his favorite music he swirls across the road like pikes

For many it is not about the passenger
It is not about the fare
It is not reaching someone somewhere
It is all about chatting with friends without a care

Request, plead or urge him to come there
With disdain looks like a maharaja of the yore
He will with his eyes suggest what  a sore
And continue with his snore

There are a obliging few
Their fare meters are as honest and resolute as the morning dew
There is no rhyme or rhythm in its upward move
Before you realise you have pledged a fortune.

The facilities he expects from the Goverment are royal
The language he uses is diabolical
Honk your way  is his moral.
When he hits your vehicle, it is normal
When you hit his vehicle, his tribe, surrounds you like a mongrel

Somebody stop this three wheeled malice
Metro, mono or an improved BMTC will suffice 

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Banglaore, Karnataka, India