Reign of the Quisling-Rodents

RAGE

44 O, for a solar quirk! That the retributive sun Might come and char this hideous congestion of freaky noons Off my heydays But knowing How vanity always colours – with a shade of illusion – This and other fervent wishes, Makes my soul bleed RAGE Out of reeking pig dung My ballpoint pen erects a statue of you; Out of exasperation Out of stale dog retch The hands of my words raise monuments in your downtowns; Out of despair And through these journeying breezes I send up to heaven Tidings of your foulness And, for all I care, Ignominy is what I tell of you; The stampede, the suicide and the greed Over crumbs of salted caked faeces Fed to the blind If to each son of this desecrated soil Is a tribute to pay, 45 I do mine this day In vituperative lines Written In the ink of my watery stool PAPA’S LAND Disdain moves the feet that trample On us; poor squatters on affluent grounds Ill will moves the mouths which, calling us, Chew our names to chaff As if to say The most hapless of this world’s accursed Is our only kindred: we; mendicants in papa’s land Yaws in their lungs from the greed-borne disease That fills the heart with pus And I wish to Lucifer That I’d be dead in this dead of night, killed By virtuous things So let sweat from the soles of your feet Moisten the dusty road as you tread barefooted O! Famished emigrant, away from papa’s land; Fart-fouled, sin-soiled shrine where in our midst Ignobly rests his soul; Rocky place on which My patriotism, glassier than yours, Crashes to sunlit shards ...