This Man Poem by Job Ombati

This man talks.
On on on he talks.
Wrestling all women.
In the talking match.
And wins the match.
Easily.
In all the seven villages.

He's shappened his tongue.
Tied dynamite to it.
Launched it.
Aimed it at the sky.

His tongue knows all.
He entertains.
He intrigues.
He enthralls.
He blithely laughs.

He owns all.
Knows all.
The father of the bastard.
He knows.
Who aborted.
He knows.

On his tongue healing lacks.
But has scripted many eulogies.
And written many ephitaphs.
His tongue drags along all hell.

Poems for Humanity