I spit upon the laws that thieves have made
To give the crooked the strength to rob the straight.
I spit upon a country so full of wealth
Yet millions wallow in squalor and in want.
I spit upon the flag that flaps like a rag
Above an excrement of pregnant generals
And the new monkeys with the conductor's stick.
Upon this whole damned nation of mine
do I spit. And while I spit, I weep.
Look at them, B.J.: The whirling dervishes of our history, politicians
of the third and final republic, with their spin doctors
and dream makers, sorcerers and shrinks all spinning round
and round like the possessed prophets of Baal,
stabbing themselves, cutting up their bodies, out of whose holes
nothing flows, neither blood nor water, nor any juices
of the spirit, since these animals are meat, mere meat,
fit only to be barbecued or roasted or baked or even cremated.
I mean the leaders. Since they are by their nature, toxins,
inedible, and for the sake of their immediate humanity,
should be handcuffed, shaved, upstairs and downstairs,
put in a leaking boat and pushed into the Atlantic Ocean,
where they will find, among the monsters of the deep, the bones and relics
of their ilk, snorkeling among the ocean floor, among
the polyps and corals , the skeletons of a drowning history!
Here they come again. Here they come! Look at them. B.J.,
International Thief Thiefs. See their eyes? And their stinking arses,
their balding patches and trembling eyelids, (See, they are making
juju with their eyes now) puckered faces and leprous hands cradling
their crystal balls, their luminescent balls. Hear their grand epics,
their chants and great incantations…The prisons have been emptied,
the parliaments are full…The donkeys are neighing, the horses braying,
the bulldogs roaring, the hyenas throwing up…Meanwhile the hen
returns to roost without her brood of chicks because a python lies
at the threshold, his stomach bulging with eggs and the bones
of the only cockerel left. The compound walls are falling.
Creepers crawl over our homestead.
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