Grandfather
The sheen has left his pan,
He reminds me of my grandfather,
He died years back in rustic rural,
I was not there to mourn him,
I was on the run;
He had style than this
Wrinkled and darkened by ideologies,
Cruel to the masses,
A fist in the air,
A mob of hyenas surround him,
To feast on him,
He calls it allegiance.
In his old age, I wonder
If he smells good,or bathes enough
To run this jewel;
Mother could not bathe herself
When she died;
She was young,
This is an old thug.
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