There are some who cannot gaze at a tranquil pond: without disturbing it, they won’t sit
And they cannot look up at a nest, without flinging a stick over it
They are inclined to create chaos; their minds are incapable of digesting calm
Who they hurt, what hearts they trample, they care not: they inflict injury without a qualm
What they fail to realise is: Karma and justice are sound
There’s a divinity that shapes our ends * and what goes round, comes round
One day they will strike a bee’s nest
And get stung badly: until then they won’t rest.