Feast Day Poem by Moto Wamwanga

Night clubs usually make
Billions every weekend.
Lots of people pretend
To get ill at work to make

This appointment, to hit
These shrank and dark venues. Fridays
And Saturdays are vital days
That devils invade London, make profit.


They are here, they are there
Like a mad dog out of its chain.
They scatter like atmosphere,
Or sheep, without leader, in pain.

Where are these girls going
This late? What are they doing
Out? Are they looking for money,
Happiness, husbands or honey?

They are on the pavement
Standing in short, so short skirts,
Higher heels, big or small T-shirts,

In short dresses or tight legging
Like African prostitutes begging
Drivers. What a wanted t orment!

They even ignore winter times.
They pratically ignore crimes
That are, every day, committed
In London. Everything is permited

In this city. What do you expect?
Fridays and Saturdays are days,
Special, unique days they respect
And worship, also glorify always

The devil. I have never seen
Such a city, where people work
From Monday to Thursday, but

Friday and Saturday, I have been
Investigating and told about
This, they spread wages from York

To New Addington. The week-end
Is the only moment people spend
All their salaries, dance and drink

To death like bees in palm wine.
I cannot juge them. But, I think
Exceeded freedom is not fine.

Enjoying is good, but in the devine
Way is better. When avoiding to sink,
Partying at home is the best link.