kaviraajaa kavitaa ke mat ab kaan marodo
dhandhe ki kuchh baat karo kuchh paise jodo

sher shaayari kaviraajaa na kaam aayegi
kavitaa ki pothi ko dimak khaa jaayegi
bhaav chadh rahe anaaj ho rahaa mahagaa din din
bhukhe maroge raat kategi taare gin gin
isi liye kahataa hun bhaiyyaa ye sab chodo
dhandhe ki kuchh baat karo kuchh paise jodo

are chhodo kalam chalaao mat kavitaa ki chaaki
ghar ki rokad dekho kitane paise baaki
are kitanaa ghar me ghi hai kitanaa garam masaalaa
kitanaa paapad, badi, magori michr masaalaa
kitanaa tel lun, michir, haldi aur dhaniyaa
kaviraajaa chupake se tum ban jaao baniyaa

are paise par rach kaavya
are paise
are paise par rach kaavya bhukh par git banaao
gehun par ho gazal, dhaan ke sher sunaao
laun michr par chaupaa_i, chaaval par dohe
sugal koyale par kavitaa likho to sohe

kam bhaade ki
are
kam bhaade ki kholi par likho qavvaali
jhan jhan karati kaho rubaa_i paise vaali
shabdo kaa jajaal badaa lafadaa hotaa hai
kavi sammelan dost badaa jhagadaa hotaa hai
mushaayaro ke shero par ragadaa hotaa hai
paise vaalaa sher badaa tagadaa hotaa hai

isi liye kahataa hun mat is se sar phodo
dhandhe ki kuchh baat karo kuchh paise jodo

King of verses, enough of twisting ears with rhyme,
Speak now of trade, and gather coins, one at a time.

Your lion's roar, your verse, will find no worth,
The book of poems, by termites, devoured on earth.
Emotions rise, as grains grow dear, each passing day,
You'll starve and wander, counting stars, come what may.
Thus I implore, dear brother, this folly release,
Speak now of trade, and gather coins, and find your peace.

Leave the pen, cease your poetic grind,
Count the coffers, see what funds you find.
How much ghee remains, how much spice you've stored,
How many papads, how much is adored?
How much oil and salt, chili, turmeric, and seed?
King of verses, silently, become a merchant, indeed.

Compose a verse for money's fleeting reign,
Sing songs of hunger, and of earthly pain.
Turn gazals to the wheat, lions to rice you see,
Compose a quatrain on salt, a couplet on the tree.
Write verses on coal, that your words may gleam,
For a modest room, compose a qawwali's dream.
Compose a quatrain on salt, a couplet on the tree.

The web of words, a cumbersome plight,
A poets' gathering, a treacherous fight.
The verses of the mushairas invite a scolding's sting,
A wealthy lion's roar, a powerful thing.

Thus I implore, no more this wasted quest,
Speak now of trade, and put your soul to the test.