Dead Days

Dead are the pure days, when colour wasn’t the issue When food and culture, before the moral punctures Before came predators to hunt, and scavenging vultures To make a rudiment of, our own footpaths by tortures Dead are the pure days, when bitter blue gum was sweet When the pocornized maize, and sleepover meals served When dressed potato sweet, and friendly liquor was neat Before the rudiment of, our own walkways by torture Dead are the pure days, when our affordable league Meant to laugh and smile, and not betting EPL to cry As we hit nylon paper balls, and chuckled under the fig Before the rudiments of, our own pathways by torture Dead are the pure days, when on the swaying ropes We took flights without, necessary tickets in thickets As they pushed to swing, the rope we giggled Before the rudiments of, our own alleys by torture Time to think time to resurrect, the dead fortunate With bitter long term experience, breathe life in nostrils Let the past speak to us, let the light beat the darkness For the rudiments of, our culture mimic extinction