O Prachanda, thou butcher clad in peace’s robe,
Seventeen thousand ghosts howl at thy name,
Yet thou dost smile, deny the crimson globe,
And carve thy throne from Delhi’s whispered flame.

Fox-hearted rebel, serpent in the crown,
Thou slew the thousands, then the rest disowned;
With bloodied hand thou signed the peace, sat down,
And made the very dead bear witness—owned.

India’s shadow puppet, master of the lie,
Thy cleverness outstrips the reeking pyre—
All hail the king who bids the murdered die
Twice: once by steel, once by his tongue’s fierce fire!