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,
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.