A little story.
A little story; you’d call it,
Of birds that didn’t fly,
Of the shut-doors unyielding,
Of the horns that clogged,
Locked in eternal embrace.
And could never let go.
My fellow countrymen; he’d start
Let’s be happy; he’d imply
A long way we’ve come; he’d recall
A milestone we’ve achieved; he’d remark
Let’s all come together; he’d suggest
And sip from the common broth; he’d lie.
Under the Ray.
Soaked and drenched; in their sweat,
Burning from above; rained pitiless rays
Burning from below; razed the cruel sand
Burning from within; their unrelenting thirst
Yet they clapped and screamed his name,
In their soiled clothes; under unflinching rays.
Of the axe that slayed a doctor,
Of the needle that sewed kid’s lips,
Of the scissors that de-eared a woman,
And the girls that stoned newsmen.
Yet the image on the coin;
Was paramount of all,
And a handshake care to say;
Was the “quick fix” to their problems.
And so went the little story,
Of a sick little nation,
United in unforgetfulnes;
Of the bang and the fury,
That prefaced the big metaphor,
Of a sad Locked Horns.
By. Dennis K Bundi.