Mumbai, the queen in a thong

Mumbai, the Mafia's maska, Mumbaikar, the man with a chaska, matter karega toh milega lafda, pyaar karega toh milega Jhaatka.. Fundas and pandus are street smart here, life travels with no gear, no fear.. The local train is a ventilator for the major chunk, the streets never fail to drool you over with their junk.. Bhaigiri in every gaali, zyada bolega you go home without a bulli.. Girls like to let down their swag, guys act like chicks, they love to brag, 'From Mumbai, Maharashtra' on your facebook profile? Feels good, doesn't it, this city being your domicile.. You can't be bovine to achieve your desire, you laze or feel permeated, you catch fire.. The highways are often painted with speeding tyres, tycoons and mantris, in their lal batti, running about in that fiery attire.. Vada pav, a staple diet, the fat mumbaikar, can never keep his stomach quiet.. Break ups, are quite the reasons for suicides here, puberty seems to be a dagger creating a stir.. But they breathe, they fight, they love to feed one and all, this is we, back to normalcy, hours after an aftermath sprawled.. Roses without a hymen, skies are blue, but the pollution here, will certainly make you puke.. The tobacco flute is the tune every ad professional here blows, Hi 30 years, will I even seen you, bro? Fight for survival, the hefty push in the train, people want space from their loved ones, and Mumbai wants space from the builders who want to build their terrain.. Mumbai chokes in every toke, while you try to evoke and soak.. This city has manifested itself into a charm indeed, and somehow manages to feed every greed.. Mumbai, where I was born and turned brawn, here's a note dedicated to you, you queen in a thong..