toilet holes’re always OM-ing their game
(docile addicts are always cofflingly chained
to hang’n on’n’on to the same old same)
calloused hands of impoverishing lands
shamed for how you made to be living here
by themm ones who telling you to come . . .
wars strikes depressions no matter what
always enrich’n the lot of them keep’n you here
and you’re the ones forever lose’n the most!
aborting your lives for the bid’n of themm few
who gon never be invite’n you in for a drink . . .
and on Sundays a horde of hustling lackeys
be lay’n sleight-of-hands on your heads
by the order’n of them legislating clans pay’n
you with stalls in tiny roach investing slums
and them tin match boxes on wagon wheels
cartons in alleys snotting in socks with no heels
so your children OD’n hug’n wet toilet stools
and found dead decaying dumped in ditches
‘side the waving of sprawling amber fields . . .
is the news media stoking public disdain
so keep’n you run’n on in the same old lane
“if every Sunday you santify’n themm holy pots
anointing our pompous asses no matter what
aint mattering themm other themms
who aint you but just the same like thee
YOU aint NEVUH gone be on the bottom
of OUR plan of forever being the puppeers
of all the puppets in OUR promised land”
Copyright ã 2019 Asili Ya Nadhiri
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