I sit in the State’s Congress
Painting portraits of progress
With colours from a hopeful bucket
In which no trouser owns a selfish pocket.
I observe no hour of silence
To bid farewell to every pestilence
That hung graves on our weary necks
Without control, without checks.
Alas, I find the solution
To this grey headed pollution…
We and our government
Must touch the hem of HIS garment.