The Prodigal Son Poem by Cliff Phiri

His words are sour.
The waist has fallen to the thighs.
Morals were thrown into the trash.
His words are moisturised with curses.
Give him wealth, he will spend it far.
The mind is vandalized.
The spirit is dry.
Follow his ways- you are headed downstream.
Try to correct him- you are correctly putting a fire in your own eyes.
Who can bear his misery?
He is nothing but a disgrace!
His field is full of mockery.
Who can cast out his folly?
Close your ears when you see him open his mouth.
Tighten your gates for he might take all from you.
His soul craves for trouble.
Even pigs can't feed with him.
He smells destructive.
His folly is exclusive.
A time bomb on his life watch.
His greatest tutor is the house 6 feet down.
He rejoices in negativity.
Relatives are thought of just in times of pain.
Do not let him to the rooftop for he will oppress you from then.
His efforts are all in vain.
Nothing good is appreciated.
His meditations are scary!
To him Adam has not yet eaten the forbidden fruit.
Jail is not for him; but hell!