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I don’t have the financial muscle To wrestle the American State President intellectually If the truth be told ; I don’t have half enough in my savings account To ridicule the financial dry seasons I went through to this age Congratulations to you Mr President Sir For writing a new chapter on the American political page From this angle It looks like the president elect have got issues with my race ; The African race….my beloved race And just as it stands I am speaking for that damned race Riding through a broken wing of political ambition, The “money-man” said stuff to undermine the African race, His excoriation came with no humane moderation Pardon his prejudice and the indifference thereof He said a lot of derogatory remarks The poet’s pen cannot scribble out of humility At least they say the moneyed man is American But I think the question should be Who is not? The chosen candidate Uttered things I would never say to a fellow human being Most of us felt the sting, That wasn’t quite mundane, nowhere near humane… Nobody under the sun would ignore the stink The Zuni can’t recall , Help us a little ,where you there When the Shoshone , Cayuga and the Seneca dared the Appalachian Mountains untamed With their bare hands and physical strength The book of life might have missed it Where you there to object The template of creation in the face of the creator ? Love was there and black was there too There in God’s mind and unquestionable plan To beautify the human face with a little black To be sure enough equity was there in the creator’s plan You were there in the political race , In your wealthy hands , with all the electronic space Making your lizard-snake-reptile inference Whatever the case with my race At least the US dollar in my purse Does not carry your respectably rich face on it Check it; I envy the presidential throne From which you make those racial utterances But then you give me lines and verses To shelve my political aspiration for this writing pen Face it; We are still holding “those” truths to be self evident ‘that all men are created equal that they are….. That among these are life , liberty and pursuit of Happiness…’ Feel it; I regard my African self with the same human respect You regard your presidential American self, That feeling is not bound with creed or colour Mr President Smell it; Right there in your office The voice of justice and of consanguinity Enshrined in your political dogma So, what’s it? I hear they regard you as a political saint Some of us do not mind the colour, Just give us the portrait Word is a flame To take them high Beyond the cloud of weed and codeine Serve it moderated; that’s what civility says If I may ask, Sir..how is that so The geese in your hand will turn into chicken Because you have built a new fowl run? Politics is fun, poetry just the perfect gun for the game Think about it; *’Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled Masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore, Send these, the homeless Tempest-tossed to me: I lift my lamp beside the golden door.’ These are the words of the Melting Pot The real nature and stature of America… We love your America Sir.

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A Few Words To the American Mogul

I don’t have the financial muscle To wrestle the American State President intellectually If the truth be told ; I don’t have half enough in my savings account To ridicule the financial dry seasons I went through to this age Congratulations to you Mr President Sir For writing a new chapter on the American political page From this angle It looks like the president elect have got issues with my race ; The African race….my beloved race And just as it stands I am speaking for that damned race Riding through a broken wing of political ambition, The “money-man” said stuff to undermine the African race, His excoriation came with no humane moderation Pardon his prejudice and the indifference thereof He said a lot of derogatory remarks The poet’s pen cannot scribble out of humility At least they say the moneyed man is American But I think the question should be Who is not? The chosen candidate Uttered things I would never say to a fellow human being Most of us felt the sting, That wasn’t quite mundane, nowhere near humane… Nobody under the sun would ignore the stink The Zuni can’t recall , Help us a little ,where you there When the Shoshone , Cayuga and the Seneca dared the Appalachian Mountains untamed With their bare hands and physical strength The book of life might have missed it Where you there to object The template of creation in the face of the creator ? Love was there and black was there too There in God’s mind and unquestionable plan To beautify the human face with a little black To be sure enough equity was there in the creator’s plan You were there in the political race , In your wealthy hands , with all the electronic space Making your lizard-snake-reptile inference Whatever the case with my race At least the US dollar in my purse Does not carry your respectably rich face on it Check it; I envy the presidential throne From which you make those racial utterances But then you give me lines and verses To shelve my political aspiration for this writing pen Face it; We are still holding “those” truths to be self evident ‘that all men are created equal that they are….. That among these are life , liberty and pursuit of Happiness…’ Feel it; I regard my African self with the same human respect You regard your presidential American self, That feeling is not bound with creed or colour Mr President Smell it; Right there in your office The voice of justice and of consanguinity Enshrined in your political dogma So, what’s it? I hear they regard you as a political saint Some of us do not mind the colour, Just give us the portrait Word is a flame To take them high Beyond the cloud of weed and codeine Serve it moderated; that’s what civility says If I may ask, Sir..how is that so The geese in your hand will turn into chicken Because you have built a new fowl run? Politics is fun, poetry just the perfect gun for the game Think about it; *’Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled Masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore, Send these, the homeless Tempest-tossed to me: I lift my lamp beside the golden door.’ These are the words of the Melting Pot The real nature and stature of America… We love your America Sir.