Born to slavery these deformed slaves
Never able to quite relish
The taste of freedom, they always boast
Still they are haunted by their master's ghost.
They can smatter with so much ease
Their master's lingo while the master smiles
Seeing these clamoring quarrelling slaves
Quarrelling over their gibberish.
Someone says his pronunciation
And style are immaculate Oxonian
While wobbling on his loins thin
The greatest ass, the greatest Mastaan
Says his style is that of a Mastaan.
In its midst our great Ghotan
Who once stood first in examination
Painfully walking with his broken pelvis
Pain showing on his puckered face
Frowns and says in annoyance
All these are thoroughly atrocious.
Yet to see their specimens
We hear only cursing Calibans.
Caliban: You taught me language;
and my profit on’t Is,
I know how to curse.
The red plague rid you
For learning me your language!
(Act I, Scene II)
Stephano:…where the devil should he learn our language?
(Act II, Scene II)
(The Tempest)
