POEM: GONE-GORE SHOE

I crave the indulgence of my pockets,

As I embark on this journey of no definite return,

If I work my ass off in the morning,

And crown it in the evening with a keg of 'pammy',

On whose account do I credit the receiver?

And in whose name would I debit the giver?

I crave the indulgence of your pockets,

As I begin this milestone of no return,

After working my ass off on the farms,

With the hope of a future assured,

And some big fat ants and their masters,

Supported by some gone-gores,

Kills my only hope of survival in harvest,

In whose name can I fight this raging injustice?

And now comes Hemi-strata,

Dangling in the face the hope of 10 shillings for a thumb,

That's a pot of soup for one week,

Bundles of stomach disturbances at stake,

But even bundles of future infrastructures in the mud,

The future can wait while I eat my tomorrow's yams,

I will choose a thousand times the piece of my stomach,

Than a penury-stricken peace of mind. 

Even in the midst of plenty I sacrifice my harvest,

For morsels of democratic malfeasance,

My harvest returns as levies,

For huge benefits of pocket and imaginary disgrace,

I toil in the day, only to be rewarded in the night,

By a bunch of international disgrace in an unholy matrimony,

A wedding presided by a priest-in-deceit,

Sordid marital vows renewed every four years in dishonour,

I so prefer the peace of my stomach,

Than an already massacred piece of my soul.