A Cry For Help Poem by Shachia Oryila

We're poor
diseased by years of neglect
naked save for the pairs of
tattared shorts we've on
and these stained fabric-rags
for shirts against the elements
bare-footed only for the pairs
of oversized footwears
made from disused tyres.
If we've leaders they had
mortgaged our future
long before we burst forth
if we've chiefs they lack
the spark to guide or lead
only to fan embers of hate
and violence among subjects.
If we got rights as spelt out
in notes handed by jackboot boys
or penciled down by new masters
it's to be seen and not heard.
The wisdom in our fleshless skulls
day or night doesn't count at all
theirs decide our fate.
We're confirmed Lords of Gutters,
Generals with full slave insignias
against our wishes and dreams;
if we've government now or ever
as the radios, tellies and papers
remind those who could afford
it's emeshed in loud corruption
and coudn't hear our banging
and barking by the door for help.
If we find a toll free home
among the parks or sacks tonight
in the open on verandahs
or fallen roofs or broken walls
we shall gladly answer the call
where our services are courted
by those in tinted homes and cars
we daren't go closer in daytime
to settle whatever scores
lured by the synthetic scent
of crips notes never seen
that our new position bring.
What do we do but to
take to a decent trade.
It's not least comforting
to point a hind quartres
anymore at some folks
as long as we can put food
on the table.