It is the year 1575. Dastan i-Amir Hamza rules India. Persian & Hindu elements appear side by side. One fat assed bird catcher walks east of the painting With no bird or cage. A goatherd and his mistress watch their goats Lick the vanilla off the place wall. An inscription says it's a sunday. The trees are in full bloom. The rocks are well fed. Thus everything is serene Except what appears to be the palace courtyard Which, thanks to the painter, we see clearly. There, things don't look so good. Well dressed Persian & Hindu nobles Are tearing each other to disarray. Yet it is no orgy. One hefty woman rolls on the floor punching her nose Which barely squeaks, A noble opens his mouth to let the devil spit, Yet another stands firm as a table While his midget companions ping-pong through his ears. It is plain the royalty is in one heap of misery. However, in the center of the painting There sits a man with a huge beard, velvet jubba and muslin roomal, He is without doubt, Muzmahil, the great hakim. At present he is treating a sorcerous elbow Twisting it like a rubber band. The owner of the elbow lets out one helluva yell. He is going to be O.K. Next to him there waits the apprentice archery commander Transfixed with red cushions, His ass has been shot full of sorcerous arrows. The legend says, Muzmahil will get to them. By and by no doubt, And by and by, Muzmahil will become Muzma, Hill & Sons, As sorcery continues through the centuries.