He looks famished
In tattered clothes
As he holds his dog chains
Waiting to be sales blessed
But, oh, poor lad, I hear “aaba ei!”
And he takes to his heels
The bread seller trips him
In her quest to escape
And the uniformed helped him not to rise
By letting his baton painfully talk to his poor looking skin
Which does not cry because of lack of red water
But screams in pain by showing white marks
What a world we do live in
Abusing jobs have become addictive
That we see no need to have some reasoning
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) 2014
Mum Cee 