Matthias Pantaleon Poems

It doesn't really matter the colour
Of your blood, if it's made of pink
It doesn't matter if you've valour
Made of bricks, or a mixture of ink
...

Everyone I know is in haste
The world is dying out of neglect
Plough by racist and their hate
We are in dare need of intellect
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I heard you lost your hubby
They said he was a jolly fellow
I heard you cry in the lobby
It must be hard on weeping willow
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Can you hear yourself speak, my prince
Suddenly your tongue had buried its head
You sell your conscience for a miserable price
Maybe it’s for the right price, still, it’s unheard
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I speak of the truth most frankly
Like a nursing mother speaks of care
It beats my imagination most honestly
Why men tell lies or even dare
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Heaven bestowed upon thee good grace
A fortress to house your priced treasury
That you may strive with legendary pace
Your enemies will be sore with injury
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Nightfall - how much oil is left in the lantern
Hurry; let's strive for eternal light of peace
Else, we'll walk the night in the same pattern
As men who lack the pedigree to set a pace
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On the other side of the hill awaits vengeance
Men who strive tirelessly to multiply in iniquity
Will be squeezed and whip for such impudence
All the fortune we acquire amount to vanity
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We'll meet again, sometime in the future
I hope to see you grow more flesh on the cheek
We'll reminisce, discussing popular culture
I hope you find in abundant, the good you seek
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They arrived in different attires
Each symbolising enormous corruption
Pot belly, overweight with titles
They have become an institution
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