I hate my house I don’t trust my mouth, I only have a tone stitched and tainted trouser, I’m starving No difference between me and a church mouse My spouse left me I get money if I beg I feel pain in my leg My life is at stake, it’s like a cloth hanging on the peg. Paper boards written on different items You can tell by seeing them Carrots, tomatoes, sugarcane Everything you want I got it I also have some extraordinary gauge My prices are favourable to every client You’re most welcome The voice emptied of love Only Occupied with hate A complaint from a charcoal seller Catch for me that little bastard Stealing my falling wood A police man with a gun A desperate teen looking for a living Hands that slip into the customer’s pocket caught red handed Handcuffs disciplining his hands People around breathing ruthlessly, cursing and accusing No point of return, left dispirited And stranded it’s not hard to tell That he has started picturing his way To jail and I doubt he’ll ever get any bail. Voices, voices, choices, choices It’s like a lesson with no curriculum Life differs like pages in the book Let me change to another chapter I see no rapture in this Better capture the letters and know at least what they mean. BY OBED SHYAKA
