Richest Land/Richest Man Poem by annabel inman

In the soil of the richest land lies beneath a boiling frying pan
Explosive not like eggs hammer out a shoot
Not manmade, nor made of man
When the boiling bubbles blister through
The land if disheveled loses all of its roots.

The enemy is quick and has no remorse
Man may survive somehow and may not of course
The land will be ruined and unable to bear babes and fruit
And mothers will cry for their lost limericks…
Nothing is left, not even sticks.

In the heart of the richest man lies beneath a boiling frying pan
Explosive with anger, his finger hammers, the gun shoots
He has just made; he is made of man
When enough is enough, his mind he will lose
The man is disheveled, face to the ground, and wears a dirty suit.