Buggered word Gita?

Dhrtrashtra said-

I, born blind, yet now in darkness more profound

Your speech, beseech, that my Light may be Sound

Say- Were our battle eager Barons not abashed when they found

Their bellicose display profaned Kuru’s holy ground?

Sanjay replied-

Nay, blind to all but their, mirrored, martial array

Only defeat, not desecration, their thoughts could dismay

Though who die on the field of Kuru’s sacred fane

By your ancestor’s boon, sure, Heaven attain

Who go there to slay- like gamblers gloating at a game they have fixed

In the wine of their winnings but Honour’s ashes are mixed-

Yet, I admit, your son, for one, to his Guru sped his way

But, it was to shore up his own support, not for guidance to pray

Saying, “There stand the students you taught to draw the bow

“Now jesting & contesting whose arrow shall lay you low...

"There stand the traitors- captained by the son of your false friend

"Lives you might have ended, were Loyalty your true end...

“But now hear, best of 'Brahmins', of the berzerkers in my ranks

“Innumerable Heroes, intent, with their lives, to buy my thanks!”

But I spare you his roll call of clients obligated and allies opportune

Bombast not for Bards, but the Eunuch’s euphonious tune...

To proceed-

Seeing the great Guru stand silent, or, simply, your son’s spirits to raise

Blew the conflict commencing conch, Bhishma, beyond praise.

Your grand-sire’s clarion being echoed by others on his side

Lord Krishna, and your nephews, in like terms replied.

& all Heaven and Earth trembled at that soul ravening roar

Rending the hearts of its hearers who had roared just before

Then spoke Arjun to Lord Krishna, who, as his charioteer to boast,

Had bartered away the strength of a battle hardened host

“Twixt the assembled armies, Thou Changeless, direct now my car

"To see how mercenary are those mustered for this unjust war”

Not choosing to whet Arjun’s valour upon visages malicious or mean

To Guru Drona & Grandsire Bhishma, straight, Kishan drove his team

 For both in Virtue abound- bound by no higher Law than their vow

& Timocratic thymos however courteous their bow

Serving Kings, forfeiting Kingdoms, in but fealty to their word

Not Justice, nor yet that Kingdom never of this world

And who, of your son’s bounty, having no cause for complaint

Cleave to his cause, though knowing him no saint.

It was to these two great warriors- impossible for Arjun to best

That Kishan drove your nephew- his mettle to test.

Yet, not his courage then quavered, nor confidence wavered but- strange to say

Compassion there seized him, such Sorrow besieged him- his valour ebbed away

He said-

“I tremble and stare, my hair stands on end,

Seeing elder, preceptor, kinfolk and friend

Eager for battle

thundering cattle

lowing their bliss

 at butchery’s abyss

Whom, if nothing else can warn,

Let my bloody body impede

 their idiot stampede

For life is nothing once loved ones are gone

These are my kinfolk- Keshava!

Though Greed misled them

This doom I dread them

Their families will fail

Their widows wail

& daughters harlots turn

Hell fire their ancestors burn!

My ancestors- Keshava!"

Saying which, the puissant Prince cast aside his bow and unable to stand

Was crushed down in his chariot seat by sorrow’s feeble hand.

Lord Krishna had sought but Arjuna’s martial ardour to feed

Upon the sight of warriors worthy of his arrow’s worshipful speed

Whom ’twere a puzzle to best

 An exacting test

Not a conclusion foregone

That they he’d mourn

For by boon Celestial

and their own butchering skills bestial

Drona and Bhishma could not be killed

 Save they themselves so willed

Which fact, if mentioned, might his cause retard

Thus Kishan, hoist with his own petard

Said only - ‘whine not like a little pussy, you big girl’s blouse! ’

“Well at least my pussy is little- yours’s bigger than a house!”

A retort Arjuna didn’t make- restoring amity

But rather continued to whine- a true calamity

For such indeed, is the tradition of your House

The heir rightful to yield- coz he’s a big girl’s blouse

Devapi & Bhishma, but worse, Vyasa, Shuka, to God

Chitrangada alone battling- defeated poor sod

By that jealous demi-Divinity disputing his name

Dying, as Men must, the Heavens to defame

But, not Arjun, no, for that chaksushi vidya he’d been given

A sort of world withering second sight - or arrow that is driven

Backwards into eyes by what might otherwise blind them

Unloosing Light’s lasso from heads severed to thus bind them

As Iravan’s head that sees all I see

Shedding, perhaps, Tears where I go pee-pee...

But, to get back to what Arjuna said

‘I’d rather be dead

Than on such offal fed

As on which fatten, but, vulture & culture

 Whoredom and kingdom

Title that is but theft’s requital

 or Desire- that liar

 or Pride- that pre & Pan fucked bride

 or, once Shame’s a goner,

Honour!”

Actually, he didn’t say that. I mean, it’s what he should have said

’stead of whining like a pussy about how his heart bled

For his cousins and Uncles and other such shite

For agenbite of inwit did that nitwit much bite

How battle Compassion? Against Pity what avails?

Its bitter taunt, the bravest daunt, yet, here, Love fails

What advice can one give to one better advised?

What redaction to a text, remorse has revised?

Lord Krishna was silent- what, after all, could he say?

Himself the soul of Arjun’s compassionate dismay

Till Arjun, waxing eloquent in unaccustomed speech

Outran Ruth, to Truth, in Rhetoric, over-reach

Saying “My Compassion is weak- not my Nature knows this weakness

& Duty’s path ever doubtful- such my Warrior Mind’s obliqueness

Yet, tho’ of your Treasury, the merest trifle

What in me is your disciple

Owns wholly and longs to own

You Lord and you alone

As the Unifier of my Empire entire

& Unequivocal voice my I might suspire

My Freedom wretched save as thy dole

Sole Refuge, mine, Persecute my soul!

Redeem my victory, bleak, over Men and God

For not I shall fight for such bitter reward!”

Well, he didn’t actually say that- but you get the gist

Compassion such a cunt it oft appears to have jizz’t

A truth analytic, not Synthetic, as Kant Emanuelle assumed

Like ‘Bugger not a Brummie after a Balti he’s consumed’

For Kurukshetra is the Polish Space for Jorgensen’s dilemma

Such that Brouwer Choice Sequences evolve Zorn’s lemma

& Everybody is everybody by Banach Tarski

& Huggy Bear the Brahma of Hutch & Starsky

To be or not to be that is the riddle

& Occluded we - the excluded middle

But here I will stop coz, blind buddy, you’re busted!

You say you want to see but turn away disgusted

War aint a cutesy rom com video you can rent

To watch with your girl or bum chums wot are bent

War isn’t a joke- mark me well

Coz of all the philosophy that gets spoke- War is Hell!

Dhritirashtra- Sanjay, Suta, your speech is strange

                        & like Light, doubtful, & by Lust deranged

Sanjaya-   Suta? You mistake me, I very much fear

                            For that guy sleeping there- your charioteer

                                                                   I’m not a Suta but Sanjay Sharma!

Dhritirashtra- Not the Bard’s, you follow the Brahmin’s dharma?

Sanjaya- Neither, Sir, or both, for I’m a born I.T professional

Dhritarashtra-  Your Gita then the Knowledge Empire’s Recessional?

Sanaya- Nope, I’m just that Sharma that next to Iyer had my seat

               In Mr. Yadav’s Hindi class, who Anglophones did much beat

                                   Till, with him, they took private tuition

                            Or for imported Whiskey by Vedic intuition
                                divined his desire, or appeased his ire

                        Like Rajiv- Serene- now a game theorist in Austin

                       Who, actually learn’t Hindi, a Tea Party at Boston

                        For, Verb sap, says Vivek, a word to the Wise

                      All Independence commences in Indian disguise

 Dhritirashtra-  I don’t believe you, my piss you surely take

                            Blind tho’ I be, buddy, BIG fucking mistake!

Sanjaya- All right! I’m that aforementioned Iyer Vivek

           Whom to Gita’s glory, a Yadav slap, did awake

          In St. Columba’s School, New Delhi, circa ‘75

         Dead now to Sophia, but, in Cyber-Space alive

         Met up with you here by some glitch tachyonic

        My ISP so crap and my router something chronic

        Which is actually quite good news for you

        Seeing as I can do

        More than your Suta- for my vision is diachronic

        Just the thing, blind King, & for your ears a tonic

Dhritarashtra-  Cunt! curtail your queef!

Vivek-  Can’t. But I’ll be brief.