Best Looter Poems
1. Aztecs-black sun. The eternity of souls.
2. Five stages of an eclipse.
3.Total eclipse-3 minutes. Deep twilight.
4. The moon has a temporary crown (corona) that celebrates its victory.
5. Viewed from predestined location
6. A fated portent by the ancients.
7. A natural phenonoma in the present.
8. Next in north and South America, also Pacific in July 2019
Looter Eclipse
When darkness turns the day to night
The triumphant moon bedecks its glittery crown
Feeding upon the ancients fear of doom and gloom
Their dread of harvests wrecked with troubled soul
A daytime moon that mocked their sacrificial rites
With cursed prediction for ill fated times ahead
Punished by the idols of the time
For some iniquitous crime to languish in dire Hades
Secured the time and place of modern solar eclipse
The throng awaits with polymer shades adorned
Amid a gleeful buzz of expectation
To view the phenomena of sun obscured
And loyally watch its five stages
When day becomes a dusky shade
In matter of fact observation
Ill portents dismissed and banished
They see the crown upon its lunar head
But not the sneak thief upon the ground
Who rifles pockets, loots their bags
The eclipse’s glory takes its place
And he escapes with all their booty
In portended fate of dire acclaim
Refrain from playing the looter
Or the parasite who takes
But always remain a builder
And known as one who makes
Yes build your life, proud and true
This is the Bitcoin way
Though looters claim we owe them
As Ayn Rand used to say
The looters count on Atlas…
That he’ll hold the world in place
But one day he will simply shrug
And the world will fall through space
Stand a maker, not a looter
Though the looters grow in size
Yes, swear by your love of life
That looting you’ll despise
Resist the urge for easy life
Prove strong as a woman or man
For either you’re a looter
Or you build everything you can
Our hands work and our minds conceive
And freely with others we trade
And let’s convert some looters
And end the looting charade
A time-tested spiritual banking,
Higher and higher one goes in ranking,
Slammed doors sweetly unlocking,
Hindering barriers unblocking…
From the wall one has been flung
And like a bag on a peg hung,
One beautifully bounces off,
Once more cooking better-off
Your trifle not with Malachi 3:10,
God having it written with His Pen;
No chance rubbishing of the injunction,
For whomever must get beyond our junction.
Tithe never is by rude force backed,
Wherefore their payers have often slacked;
Of course, to hellfire straight,
Who even does so late…
As much a robber,
Who could another clobber,
No less, The Shameless Looter,
Who easily turns A Shooter.
There's a guy I know that loots.
He often wears special boots:
Strong leathery ones he'd choose,
His feet in them starts to cruise
To break doors with non-helped feet!
Isn't that alone a feat?
Bruce should like to see rogues do that
"But feet later go flat!"
Means, then, looter can be caught:
From boot shop found straight to court
In this groaning wreck we dare to call a country,
the destroyers still walk among us, unashamed.
Babangida once swaggered in khaki terror,
his iron fist crushing tomorrow before it could breathe.
He ruled as tyrant, blind to every future seed,
power in his palms, yet the nation he bled and looted dry.
A servant for a season, he and his circle served only themselves,
then retired to stolen mansions, fat on the marrow of the land.
He hounded honest tongues to the gallows for daring to speak truth,
while arrogance dripped from his lips like poisoned honey.
Millions he impoverished, helpless souls left to rot,
their dreams ground into dust beneath military boots.
“Maradona” they called him, but never a name of honor,
only a slick trickster dribbling the people’s hope into oblivion.
Now he bows his gray head in the quiet shame of Minna,
too afraid to flee the Nigeria he helped murder,
where criminals like him are strangely shielded by the same broken law.
Destruction has not paid its dividend; the ruin stares back at him daily.
He dares not walk the streets his regime never bothered to pave,
among the multitudes he defrauded and left in chains of want.
Men without vision, who stalled a giant with guns,
turned promise into mockery, greatness into jest.
Obstructers became our leaders through the barrel’s threat,
institutionalizing corruption like a dark, evil genius.
Systemic failure took root, and still it spreads its venom
in this same mess we stubbornly call a country.
Babangida, where are the guns that once ruined us all?
Are you happy now in your twilight silence?
Can you stroll freely among the ghosts of those you killed,
or do their shadows still whisper your name in the night?
Boneheaded barrack boys, drunk on docile masses,
apprentices without brains, idols of every profligate thief.
Generalissimo of morons, bearing arms against hope itself,
you looted the Gulf windfall and left us beggars in our own house.
Detestable men and their fickle friends, protected still by guns,
afflict this land till this very day.
In this groaning wreck, this mess we dare to call a country,
the destroyers live on, and the wound festers.