Tuesday, January 24, 2012

>THIS HERE AND THAT THERE>

(Jan 15- Feb 10-> Theme: What's on the ground) Soar through the sour slums, where sore gums mumble: "Give me dough for some chow charley,” One rumbles Breadknives don’t cut much, plates get crumbles Cheap pickpockets mix up in 'trotro' queues With passengers packed like Argentinian sardine, vans get abused Some chide; "mate you dey blow fuse!" Fraud gods go faster than Mavis Beacon to keep on key Peddling pouch produce, porch pushers claim "This weed dey bee" Over gutters choked with filth, life hugs on with hands unclean Joy belongs only to tadpoles dancing in paramecia discotheques. Delve into dark alleyways where stale smell of fermented fart is bliss for pests No Burberry clothes on, people here hardly see cheques Drunk dad flees, hungry mum bursts out of room not seeing the need To breastfeed child the tenth time while her pockets bleed With hunger; mean mosquitoes run night-shifts so how could one dream? Drugs fly like wayward planes Where slum thugs are stuck in the world trade So you should expect many a crack-head sprawled over the place Like rain, reality drips, let it pour through They create jobs that just aint there, the poor youth Stuck in the gloom on the corners bare, Is it because they're black that things just aint fair? Now visit the luxurious urbans Hidden under the elite’s turban Hungry folks knock at Bill's gates for spare buns Someone, go tell Trump to up his trump and proclaim to Warren Buffet Those Somalian kids keep warring for chaffed buffet Out here it's a random chase like a game of 'chaskele' School made the computer, Contradiction made the hacker Ignorance made the learner Assets made the accountant, though liabilities made the accountable With food on the plate, dreams are more probable So the rich get richer while the poor-man's stuck in the bustle Visit the money bank; ask them what they do for the blood bank Say hello to the white-collared guy walking like his poop never stank He'll use big words that elementary dictionaries lack His pockets with coins keep jingling like a fat girl's butts As he tells a long tale of global recession, ask him a penny for your thoughts He'll pay little attention, thinking his money might run short. (c)Jan 22,2012 KW

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