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68 Prisoners The colour of the street these know not Behind tainted glass walls they drive Sunlight and moonlight they see not The thickness of the earth they know not Their walled fortresses torch heaven’s gate Air harnessed and caged they breathe Liquid harnessed and corked they ingest In too much dough are they steeped Highly connected Even from inside their concrete playgrounds These prisoners, they complain not The best seats in this hell these occupy Trojan Horse Mendacity run amok Picking its casualties, The minions of a mind, By the millions Like the dry season locusts Across our savannahs The left hand playing slave to the right The right foot asking the left for direction The Trojan horse Like a breeze, only, from the desert Lurking a harmattan Ready to raze barren – with notice or none To plunder, not extol The source of this infested swamp ...

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