I Am The Victim Poem by LIGHTCHEERFUL BRIGGS

The alarum bell jingles; it was four a.m.
For the first shift to begin their journey
The period men were lost in sleep;
And were spoken to signs and omens
That has been the hour of the journey
The shrike of insects and the crow of the early hour
Now cast off Morpheus from his snoring.
The laborers hasten with panic, sojourns with all amounts of hastiness
Off to work with heavy and dizzy eyes
With grumbling stomach works relentlessly from a.m. to p.m.
Playing the role of a forklift and bulldozers
Lifting bags of kernels and heavy irons
And emaciated face; they are made to work round the clock
But these much sorried innocent victim only eats from the crumbs of their own labour.
After a hard day's job they retire home only to meet their soured soup.
They perceive the flavor of their product
But never dare to taste it. It was for P. R. O.
OH! My God the poor man's sweat is the rich man's wealth
A state not far from colonialism; a racist regime among people of the same nationality.
Protective helmets were only but fancy and decoration in the store.
A man fell off a height with head and femur broken
Deeply hospitalized, no medical attention given
Only but sacked for carelessness; he goes home and die
All daubed industrial accident due to carelessness.
Messengers were jeered at, while whistle an instrument of call by white [expatriates].
Nah! Neo-colonialism has taken root; such was the match, a match bitter to undergo
Oh! Ubima are your gods sleeping?
Here in Ubima apartheid has taken shape.