The Priestphallus’ Preaching

Give up
        Give up the whisky
Stop it and stop yourself from cirrhosis
You should stop and rather die for your country
Know it never stops the police canteens sell discounted boozes
But stop: keep a distance from the rum-fuddlers, the vodka-toasters

Give up
        Give up the cigarettes
You are no enemy of the stomach
- No, you are not the enemy of your lungs
For potential enemies, there is a sea of people with tails
There are to be enemies a universe of man-made bits and bobs

Give up
        Give up the drugs
One shot is too many for the lords in Thailand
And a thousand shots will never be enough for you
See the abusers and hookers aplenty seeking shots on the street
Though nobody would say they sell off like the government

Give up
        Give up the guns
Your generation is the intentionally left blank pages of a book
But there are certain bright eyes among the new generation
There are certainly going to be more bright eyes
Those generations that look for a better tomorrow

Give up
        Give up your stupidities
And nobody will notice it
Everybody has been ignoring you since 1949
Now perhaps for everybody’s sake and humanity
Nobody should be become asses during talking-shop’s fests

Give up
        Give up bashing the masters behind the back
The blame is all onto us and not the masters
The Nagas know the masters, the Kukis know the masters
The Meiteis know the masters —  it’s all written on different asses
No matter even if the masters and gods say we are different human beings

Give up
        Give up your saviours
You only know who is who
And we’ll never disclose you’ve a slavish mind
And that you have got only one testicle
Yet you know, and everybody knows, that you are no Hitler

Give up
        Give up your crudity
The anthropologists have stopped coming with their certificates
The extortionists have stopped defining revolution
Killing and looting and robbing and killing and looting and...
It’s true we’ve stopped living in the 15th century

And give up that false pride harder than the masters’
With the fantasy of the most overly charged gigolo
With more than a hooker’s idea
    Of her first fuck of the day to get the first fix
With the bending knees to ever fall down on masters’ feet
With the loyalty of the worst mongrel
You might get a parole out of this prison of shithole