bua bakri lekar aayi haandi bua bakri lekar aai
phir biwi ne saag pakaya na souchu tilak lagake
saag samne aaya hath ke bete
hath ke bete ki jawani kaali koyaliya ne suni ye kahani
hathi ke bete ki jawani

ramayan me panch the pandw pandaw nahi the bhai the
ek tha arjun ek tha duja ek tha teeja ek chotha
aur panchwe ka naam bhul gaye bhai panch nahi the
pandaw nahi the bhai bhai pancho ki thi ek hi maiya
naam tha uska dhropdi maai daro laga ke haar gaye
wo maya aai jani

kali rinch ki gir gai dhoti kale bander ne use uthya
nahi bhure bander ne use uthaya haat bazar ko jane wali
aaja rasyia aaja rasiya sakhi saheli ke sang mela dekhe
aaja moj manaye rut albeli mare taana kyu itna tarsaaye
phir kal parso me rasiya mora sawan beeta jaye
mora sawan beeta jaye mora sawan beeta jaye

tukur tukut kya dekhe mohe teri nani tohe bulaye
jan dekha ustaad ka pota bahre khan ka beta
gunge khan gawiya thikana tha jiska jhumri taaliya
moko gale laga ke kahe gaye sunre chatur sujan
khan bhi lena bitwa phir aisi taan

Aunt brought a goat, a pot she bore,
Aunt brought a goat, a pot she bore.
Then wife cooked greens, no mark of thought,
Before me, greens, my son's hand sought.
My son's hand, youthful, bold and free,
Black cuckoo heard this history,
My elephant son's youth, wild and bright.

In Ramayan, five, the Pandavas stood,
Not separate, brothers, understood.
One Arjuna, and then another, third and fourth did convene.
And the fifth's name, now I can't recall,
Five were not, Pandavas did fall.
Brothers they weren't, but one mother's grace,
Draupadi, her name, in time and space.
In Draupadi's gamble, the game was lost,
Maya, illusion, at what cost.
My son's hand, youthful, bold and free,
Black cuckoo heard this history,
My elephant son's youth, wild and bright.
My son's hand, youthful, bold and free,
Black cuckoo heard this history,
My elephant son's youth, wild and bright.

Black wrench's dhoti, it fell to the ground,
Black monkey raised it, or brown was found.
To the market's bustle, she did proceed.
Wait a moment, the market seed.
Come, my lover, come, my dear,
With my friends, the fair we'll cheer.
Come, rejoice, this season's art,
Why, my love, you pierce my heart?
Then tomorrow, the day that comes,
My monsoon passes, the drum it hums.
My monsoon passes, the drum it hums.
My monsoon passes, the drum it hums.

What are you staring at? Your grandmother calls.
When I saw the master's grandson, the son of Bahre Khan,
The son of the deaf Khan, the singer, his home,
Jhumri's rhythm, the beat, the song.
He embraced me, and said, "Listen, clever one,
Take the ear, my son, and sing this song."