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2 IDENTITY Oil of penury In a frying-pan country In it I sizzle To a crisp delicacy For fanged, cannibalistic mouths The noontide blaze Heats up privation’s branding iron; A red-hot misery Scars me to the soul My identity, O! Friend, Is not the black-hide sticker you see; This peelable label I carry about on me. It is that indelibleness Of tribulation Embossed On my very essence ABYSS My suffering consists Of two red-coloured woes, Ten thousand brown pains And a gripe Of hunger; Rumble of thunder Down in my bowels Pus –like milk – of human vileness ...

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