Vile emperor ruined in a coup
fled to a false village in disguise
In the street your skull stares on a spearmast too
eye-witnesses rejoice the cut to size
among the angry mob of the capital city
In broken Bengali I declare on the wire
go and loot each according to your kitty
half torso be put on trial at the post office pyre
not a dropp of blood to drip on earth but on tongue
save for evil days in coffer of mushrooms
when the cheekbones are full open your lungs
If solution to fall does not illume
make no plaint no plea as outposts are overrun
come home O internees now ownership of curfew is fun.

(Translation of 'Nyakkar Samrat' written in Bengali)