Devils known are better than saints heard of;
Reminiscing a chubby soldier and his cattle-
Technically, never physically winning battles,
Eighteen pipe por a pamily of pipe
Can’t be raised to pipty, unless masses strike.
Here we are breathing in a recycling company,
Backing people we once praised their woes,
For thumbs on paper, they turn our foes,
Come between us, build bigotry a home,
And dry mothers tongues of unity, letting blood to gush.
Pressure now a friend, ‘Na him they rush’,
Who dares to blame a servant for bowing to food,
Not doing so will only make him gone for good,
We’re in a noisy auditorium with muted screams,
Belonging to everybody and to nobody,
Fosition op za loota, por za loota and by za loota.
Intellectuals gradually loosing their minds,
ManiFestus (Manifestos) can’t keyamo(cure) the pains felt,
But a gaze to the right and a stare to the left:
Only shows another scam hoping to be atikulated (activated).
I will lock the devil whose spirit is the key,
I will lock the soldier heart which is not free.
I will lock these battles of rifles lips
lock the pee plea with Peace hips.
I will lock the masses when the strike,
recycle their feet until they can hike.
I will lock the lips that do not speak of broom,
give them clenched fists in their room.
I will lock their hopes when they call home,
lock their will so they do not roam.
I will lock these woes you swear by noon
lock the faces of mother’s by noon.
I will lock your noise when you scream
lock everybody who belong to nobody’s dream.
I will lock this position first
then lock the tap when they thirst.
They must lose their minds lace
and be still while they think they pace.
I will lock the articles that come late
I will be by the gate, I will wear their state.
Abdul X Ruddapoet