Lucifer In Disguise? Poem by Gert Strydom

He sits in his tower block
surrounded by workers
that admires him (or so he thinks.)

The being working day after day
in the white tower block
somewhere in Centurion

drags on a thick cigar
and blows blue clouds of smoke
that hang in the office

and plays a game
that tells
of his might and prosperity

and he expects that when he speaks
others must listen
attentive and in silence

as if he is almost equal
to the Lord God
and thinks that those working beneath him
swallows every word

and in the evening three or four
or maybe five
prostitutes are called by him
to get picked up by his limousine,

so he asked me
what is wrong with me
to be without a job

and expects me to explain
if it is liquor, women, being a thief,
or maybe murder.

Then I thought by myself why beings (like him)
not also are affirmed
and why that action

is still lacking with him
while the company’s goods
are very obviously disappearing into his pockets

and I keep myself
from sending him
to damnation,

or maybe to send an assassin,
bomb planting terrorist or two
as a answer to him,

but maybe after twelve in the evenings
he himself goes down to hell
to tell his subjects there
about his new misdeeds.