They must be Orwellians
Oinking their way to destroy
The house of the unsuspected.
Even the letter “M”, the thirteenth
In the line-up of alphabets
Yielding power on the fulcrum—left/right
Is afraid to precede the “oink”
For the word becomes pointless.
Hollow words should be extinct,
But not in this uncertain climate,
They keep on wagging their short, stubby tails
Behind their blatantly overweight body
For the lack of exercises—
Intellectual as well as common sense,
Telling lies against grains of evidences
Oinking their way to personal gains
Flooding the field at the cost of our lives.
The mindless Oinks with voracious appetite
Circle in mud inside the fence,
Grab anything far and near
To bloat themselves.
Year of the Rat