घुड़सवार

They point their fingers, laugh, deride,

at bodies heavy, pushed aside.

“Fat pig!” they chant in schoolyard rings,

forgetting who owns diamond things.

The word becomes a weapon thrown,

to keep the weaker overthrown.

To shrink the body, starve the will,

and sell you hunger in a pill.

But who’s the pig? The one who eats,

or kings who gorge on stolen wheat?

The labourer’s sweat fills their plate,

yet shame is passed on small, not great.

The magazines draw bones as goals,

but hide the feast of greedy souls.

The pig resides not in the skin,

but vaults where fattened profits grin.

The landlord’s belly swells with rent,

the banker’s waist with money spent.

Yet no one calls their corpulence vile,

we dress it up in wealth, in style.

The child is mocked for being wide,

while CEOs grow fat with pride.

The woman starves to chase a frame,

while rich men’s stomachs feel no shame.

“Fat pig,” they shout at common clay,

but pigs in palaces feast each day.

The insult hides a darker scheme,

to blind us from the real regime.

So let them sneer, I’ll wear the name,

a creature vilified by blame.

But history swine will never hide:

the pigs of power eat worldwide.

And when the people break their chains,

the sty will flood with truth and flames.

The fattest pigs will meet their fate,

their empire rotting on the plate.