Were I to translate poverty into poetry,
Everybody would need to climb up a big tree
To see the damage done to my father’s nation
’Tis such none can rescue with any injection.
This ailment upheld by the rotten tip of state
Who’s washed away all the hopes we wrote on a slate
Erupting a silent volcano at his birth
Letting flow all that which his fine luster hid, dirt.
He’s garbage incarnate wired to birth misery
With lengthy motions in hope to stay in history
And not in the memory the nation has of him
As one who wrecked all hopes and made power his whim
To which only the sane pens do refuse to bow
Yet, those of the herded scribes would go for the here and now
Aggrandizing evil for self aggrandizement
In a mad rage by those seeking part in government
Not one f or the people but one on them imposed
Leaving the nation, with poverty, overdosed
With a king and his mentally and morally
And the people and their kin broke financially
Explaining why none needs the big tree of poetry
To fish poverty blooming in our land it’s sea.
