Trespassing Herdsman
Ibrahim saw Abraham try to spit
But about the rudeness thought not a bit:
Herdsman coarsely attacked with a spittle
And it had no meaning or just little,
Whereas it was Abraham’s wished battle
Against his teeming hundred cattle
just placidly grazing on his farmland,
For gratitude discharging dung on sand!
Ibrahim, the black like burnt kettle,
Would, confronted, give a fight of mettle
And might, at last, on farmland just settle,
Abraham leaving to helpless rattle
On a subject of stampede by cattle
And Lord God knows that’s as bad as fatal…
With each fresh eye contact fresh spittle:
Abraham for big ones not little;
For the sure- to- fight Ibrahim herdsman
whom no folk might ever beat man to man.
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