“I say how about
breakfast at The New Farmer’s”
Our day of picking and consuming done
no hunger induced nightmares, we rest dusk to dawn
check on the young ones. Are we all here?
tomorrow we return for another early breakfast
at The New Farmers'
it's sugar cane on the menu
well done, defoliated by fire
sweet smell of wild honey
a hive of flavours of molasses
wash down milky white green corn
we're going on tortoise-paced on fast food
centipedes, scorpions rocking our pillows
going green for the season, shedding the load off
Triangle's aged sugar mills
we have suffered enough, chums
in the hands of the farmer, old and new alike
globalising of our territories, present day terrorism
landmines all over
Were they seeding sweet potatoes?
Long rooted explosives have been going off
in the crossfire of war ghosts
sounds of corn popped in shovels
by rustic labourers for lunch
tearing our species limb from limb
we dare not bore deep into the woods for sustenance
Reap where they have sown!
They will see red, develop high BP
when we up our tails, march with a swag
Ho-me! Ho-me! Ho-me! Ho-me!
cobs, canes in snouts and armpits
Their sentinel will go round anthills like the looney canine
of the long-playing "His Master's Voice," ever so poised
for a jump, off the vinyl scratches, stuck in the groove
giving Chacma a bad name;
“Command field, roger
reporting marauding baboons
destroyed plots alpha to romeo
zeroing into zulu, roger
send delta oscar gulf sierra
over and out."
Copyright © Joyce Chigiya | Year Posted 2021