You sit and watch,
The hands which has a fenced mouth
Through which your disrespectful sermons walk out with ease,
Touch and caress your sacred temple
As its legs kneel in the tightly closed doors of “mock to” ears
And you do nothing?
Shoot him! Shoot that freaking son from a rabies dog!
You think he, oh, pardon my manners, it, is fine?
What good is an attractive bottle
When it holds poison as it smiles?
Believe me, there is no greater danger
Than attractive frames holding horrid contents
So I repeat, shoot him!
Shoot that one who has made its gateway hole a sorry gutter!
Each of its touch
Spells insults, and holds knives
Which dig into the insults
Wishing to pull your heart out of your bones.
It won’t end there; another will step into your shoes
When you taste the tasteless fate of the hungry pythoness death
And it gets worse, so shoot him! Shoot that excuse of life and let the world be free.
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © 2015