- Thou art IPL, the very agonizing death of cricket
The Faustian fiend who in bargains proceeds to revel;
Offering nothing genuine between the wickets
Alas! In you every cricketer desires to unabashedly bejewel
2.Thou art IPL, the remorseless butcher of the genuine
A throwback to the times of Bacchanalian greed
Beguilingly deceptive from what is actually seen
You accumulate victims by the dozen, slaves to your creed
3,Thou art IPL, instant gratification’s ruthless and remorseless purveyor
Four hours of unabated festering and unheeded lunacy
Sacrificing aesthetics and character at the altar of glamour
To see succumb to your contrived devices is an unrivaled pity
4. Thou art IPL, a cauldron of nubile nymphs and foreign flesh
With dances prevailing over drives and playboys snubbing players
Leering spectators and salivating adults in unison progress to enmesh
You peel cricket of its joy in long strips and painful layers
5. Thou art IPL, the tempting Mammon’s trusted chieftain
Catching the game by the scruff of its neck and plunging it into a spiraling hole
As the lure of fame and luster of fortune firmly possesses many able men
Congratulations! To you the beautiful game of cricket has sold its pristine soul!
