I may not have a dime
But for that which isn't mine, I ain't got no time
I may not get to see the Nile
In my backyard no timbers pile
I ain't even bothered about the mines of gold
Which have been from days of old
I may not have the blessing of precious minerals
Or the favour of director generals
But with the butter from my Shea
I shall with all the stripes away smear:
My drying skin very well it does grease
And my humble but cherished meals grace.
You had it all, a good share of my sons' labour
But still, you say I deserve no waiver.
Now you call me names after you failed to get me maimed
And realized I couldn't be tamed, did you think I was lame?
I may not have what you term fame
But of what I am I ain't in the least ashamed
I'm content with my humble name
Which I cherish more than rubies and fame.
August 2012.
I enjoyed this poem. I find it to be contenting to read. Bien! Bien!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Many thanks my friend Shania.