Hold onto the air
And breathe in the fine fry
Of bomb blasts and thrilling shrills
Tattooing the-all angles of a once bright nation
That entrusted by bloomy villages and towns
Whose facets, as smooth as the moon’s drizzling emeralds.
Now breathe out the scent
And scrutinize the all-odors of frying
And then notice among a many
Thwarted huts and barns;
Deserted streets and avenues;
Fat bodies of famine and drought;
Destitute mums and children;
Savage kwashiorkor upon masses.