Ilankai Tamil Sangam

Association of Tamils of Sri Lanka in the USA

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Born With A Plastic Spoon

by Chandi Sinnathurai

                                    The fight is on

                                    And the blood is split

                                    Aint’ no point in talkin’ on

                                    In Gobble de goo…

                                    There’s no use for bullet proof

                                    All gets killed

                                    In this mighty goof

                                    Except the ones who talk behind

                                    Tinted glasses and bottled mineral water!

                                     It’s all a spoof.


                                    My Mamma got a bullet in her brains

                                    Pops was lynched while my sister got gang raped

                                    My brother is crippled by a hand grenade

                                    And his son got pinched by the Police State.

                                    There’s no use for bullet proof

                                    All gets killed

                                    In this mighty goof! Except…


                                    Don’t publish what I write

                                    Cause it rubs you the wrong way up

                                     With a different sort of point of view

                                    Don’t tell me to sophisticate

                                    In the end you lie

                                    And constipate.

                                    You tell me to be bold while you’re a mighty coward.

                                    You bolt behind hand shakes and synthetic smiles

                                     The fight is on; my whole world shakes

                                     And the innocent blood is spilt

                                     Bloody hell it is!       

Aint’ no point in talkin’ on…

In a language I don’t understand.


                                     Don’t give me plastic love

                                     Plastic Jesus with synthetic Cross

                                     Pious clichés and pompous farce

                                     You’ve got skeletons in the Mass.

                                    Grape juice blood and lip stick wounds

                                     I’m not show acting for medals and plumes!

                                     Give me reality; O! Jesus of Montreal

                                     Give me my sanity; ‘cause I’m bleeding mad

                                      In my Christy Anity

                                      That’s the real politik –   a story so sad, yet untold.


                                      Don’t publish what I write

                                     ‘Cause my name is not Judas Iscariot

                                      I can’t be bought nor can I be sold

                                     And I’m born with a plastic spoon in my mouth!


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