Petty people

With hearts lifted than the mountain top
You look to them like ants at the valley end
With eyes slanting like skirt slits
And lips the size of a gutter
They bellow down at their victims like fire

They attack food like wild cats on rampage
Hands and mouth working like shredding machine
Leave next to nothing for others,
Like scavengers, to scramble
Their eyes lighting up like embers of a dying fire

Bose