The Swing Poem by Odhiambo Gilbert Francis

This tree is the province of the devil
He sits on the swing in wait for his victims
Who will defy their parents' advice
To keep away from the parlous sway.

Presently, they steal to the tree
And fight over who would go first
The big one exerts his weight
The other grudgingly gives the push.

Swish, swash, the laden pendulum moves back and forth
Each succeeding thrust must be greater than the last.
He shoves with rage for he knows this is his only chance
Enormous elation must meet colossal loss.

‘loft, his raging blood threatens to burst his popped eyes
His pounding heart deafens him to the rope's tired groan
Another vicious thrust tosses him off balance
As the rope delivers his prize with a prompt snap.

Sodden with pain, they tell him he's lucky to be alive
Yet in the dreary dull drum of the wind-blown rain
He can surely hear the eerie voice of the devil
And he cringes to see the rope of the swing move
They too must see his flashes and hear his thunder!