He stands unclothed
But feels very confident and clothed
In a judgeless public
Who his many booty dust lick
He hits his chest
And orders at his comfy quest
With means of the ‘seeful’ but mute
Shooting empty glances of talk and I’ll shoot
The irony is on you
The irony is on me
The irony is on he who thinks only for himself
And not for his generation
A time will come
When everything in those coffers will be gone
And hands that fight to reach in there
Will come out disillusioned
Then, only then, will we know
The essence of minding our mouths
Where our very own is at stake.
I hope that day comes and leaves us whole.
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © 2014.