He is a porcupine
Armed with lethal quills
You massage his butts
Butts from which comes atomic bomb
He fumes and shoots himself
Apparently a terrorist attack
He is a wild domestic bird
With a spiky beak that pecks not on faded pupils
Eyes of a wild cat
His hands bleed with honey
He tastes it not
He is a scorpion of the plain
He stretches his wrinkled tail
The tail which is lethal
The tail which does not retaliate
It only stings his back
His face is the mighty warmth of the Sun
Warmth that does not melt ice
His face grows kales and cabbages he tastes not
See stalks of sugarcane on this dry spell
Do guard this gezira from the iceman
He spits beer and spirits
He indulges in them
And urinates with his belt
His mouth is a heap of tusks
Which earns him no sterling pound
You iceman with coded language
You are the cradle of dismay
Your footprints are mass graves
You laugh when he removes his trousers
And orders it to enter his wallet
Are you a wizard?
You call him a jackass
To cry beer and spirits
Before he scavenges on his own carcass
Yet you fracture his bones and suck oil
You wizard must die of asthma
Categories:
gezira, anger,
Form: Epic