It spills
and kills
my
people on the
shore.
The
boom tears
their bank accounts
and leave my grieved in
tears.
Those
white vultures
make great income from our punctures
and would want more,
even in their crocodile
sympathy.
They
broadcast cock and bull stories
and our elect baggers build several
storeys
from our belly-up economy.
I
don’t blame them,
they are not near the fire,
we are.
Like
a child, denied of her mama’s breasts,
now forced to drown in the milk.
What
could have turned nourishing,
now becomes suffering.
Don’t
pretend you don’t know,
Isn’t it because your pockets beckon
more on you than our plight?
What
could have been more pathetic
than a dog tied with a bone that
kills it?
To
the hovering eagle:
Come
and see our land,
Come
and see our water,
Don’t
only broadcast our lives when in the fire,
Tell
the world the whole story entire,
How
our parliament of vultures,
Daily
drain and tear our futures
To
nourish the fishes in their god-forsaken Swiss dam.
