Our Song

Something must be wrong with the drum
folks herein forged into the arena
Is it the age it warmed by the fireside
Or faulty fingers fiddling it
Producing muffled sounds?

Such soul-wrenching sounds
Is our song, sung for ages...

The song of this land
Is hard to dance to;
The song of this land
Is hard to listen to--
You will have eardrums rupture
Or your limbs fracture...

But, to live or leave
Calls for taming one's tongue
Silence is most revered--
Let man eat man and grow;
And you, man, eat nothing and wane
You may see the sun!

We sit, silently watching
Men wrestle for control of arena--
Jump around the dull drum;
Stepping on toes, and twisting necks--
That curse the damn tune.

We lost many a best dancer
Who could skillfully twist themselves
And have us nod with satisfaction.
This lot awkwardly twerks bottoms
And acquire tips for nothing...

The monotony of the song
Accepts no duality in dance
Man has to off shake dependents
To savour the tune with ease.

(c) wafula p'khisa
-Thigh of an Elephant-