Eleven Pm Part One
Do you know what happened
At 11 p.m Tuesday night
I guess you must have it
However much I protest-
But do you know
Of course you don’t:
The victory of ignorance
Come on! I will enlighten you
I took the bi-valve
Flung it against the tigris
And rescued the two
At the confluence
I danced to the Viennese waltz
On the throws of the dark cave
And Strauss retained
The uncommitted resources
Of the un-loved creature
Now… wait amo! Let’s see,
No of course not! I didn’t do that!
Out damned spot! I will not have thee- out!
I actually hurried to Katanga
My pockets heavy with loot-
The mercenary stained with blood:
The duplicate is not found live nowadays
Antiquity has claimed the villain!
Confound you ‘buster’ crab
That preys culture sidelong
At mating time!
‘Wherefore art thou mine!’
How about that now?
Is it possible? I wonder…
Sorry, that, too, did not happen
For as you know the onion jackal-
Pray, not the union jack,
Traded himself in
Before the nightingale
Could sing a lonely note
To warn him against prostitution
I laughed like never before
I danced like I never will
And softly sweetly swiftly
Sang ‘Charlie is hurt…’
Not that I no paratrooper am
(and mark the word!)
but that I lack vocal cords
and can be fooled all the time
by that abandoned neo-colonial hope
of the return to my mother country
Well, that sounds obscure, doesn’t it?
But then that was 11p.m Tuesday
By 1 a.m Wednesday, all was different
For not only had the nightingale
Retired to straw bag
But the cultured vulture
Had learnt to parrot
The earliest military phrase
In the hope of pardon
When dogma overtook the elusive yok
I didn’t stay for dinner
(I wouldn’t at 11 p.m!)
But I did go out for wine
To cure this eccentricity
That is all men’s wisdom…
Don’t call me wise, no!
I will curse you, don’t!
I want only to gather with the saints
And you with the heretics
So we can all dance on the volcano
With a view to resurrection!
Now- that’s coming to it:
To the underdog, I mean,
Actually that creature that sold itself
To the highest bidder- remember?
In the dark ages- well, eh, the dock wages?
I remember giving free legal advice
And praying that somehow somewhere
In the sweet by and by
We may congregate
And ‘sing blues to negritude…’
Yeah, negritude; I’ve said it already
Though you’ve forgotten
That Mother Africa poem, ah, ah, ha…
Anyway, never mind; I.. eh
I gave free legal-
Now SHUT UP! For heaven’s sake
You are repeating yourself
Very unprofessional job, this…
You should go hang weeds round your neck
And be damned elsewhere: not on our soil!
Copyright © Gerald Kithinji | Year Posted 2013
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