He trudged in sweat and sweat and sweat,
And grudged the neem its bitter shade.
But still, he never let us leave
His proud paternal palisade.
He trudged in debt and debt and debt
That nudged the wood all screeching night,
But never clawed our fate or food,
Because he kept us locked inside.
He trudged in set and set and set
In moral masculinity
Of firewalking ‘Bachchan’ lines
He read to us in dignity.