BUFFOON LEDE
CLONING OF SELF
Now I know why you have come back to me
With that feeble heathen; the ever mourning baby
The people know that the guy you favoured didn't work
The man of your dream drilled you down to the bank
And now every coin you can come across pays the loans
The loans that fed the concubines
The loans you never enjoyed
That's life, my girl. It's better to be lucky than good
Quickly full of pride, you left
Slowly and humbly, you come
I have my turn. A turn to tan you dark like a coal
I have my turn. A turn to turn you back from your goal
Your chirpy sound is beaten by smelly food full of fat
The odour from your mouth, worse than a dump site
Your voice worst than the worst voice-broken adolescent
Look at your figure! As thin as a string of cobweb
With a big stomach, like a loop. Or is it a bribe
That you ate to conceal whatever transpired between you?
And you're here convincing me to have you back?
And your words, those you spit on my face in a bark,
Consumed by the lethal power of forgiveness
I kept them behind my back - that I may never again recall
Because I patently knew that you will find a path back
Though I wandered and wondered how you would
We should be meeting now when pride
Has long gone and I have a humble bride
The torrents of life killed and created the better
Life has comped your unkempt character
Before your agony, bitterness and nostalgia
You said too much evil about me and called me brother
Welcome to your brother's house my sister
The husband you poached, maimed and ignored
The husband who has been nursed by that grave
The grave where sweet berries sprouts to thrive
The house whence her prostate heart lays,
The grave of grace whence no rose never sways
The cock you left to chase other hens
Will take care of you and the eggs that hatch in the bush
Where snakes and dogs licked and ate of the vomit
Which your best guy spit
Giving room for life to happen
Of course, it did, that's why you are here
Should my people ask you whence you're from
Tell then confidently, "from your mothers home."
And the black stick is not from a white tree?
Remind them that, "black hens lay white eggs."
©Demetrius White
Now I know why you have come back to me
With that feeble heathen; the ever mourning baby
The people know that the guy you favoured didn't work
The man of your dream drilled you down to the bank
And now every coin you can come across pays the loans
The loans that fed the concubines
The loans you never enjoyed
That's life, my girl. It's better to be lucky than good
Quickly full of pride, you left
Slowly and humbly, you come
I have my turn. A turn to tan you dark like a coal
I have my turn. A turn to turn you back from your goal
Your chirpy sound is beaten by smelly food full of fat
The odour from your mouth, worse than a dump site
Your voice worst than the worst voice-broken adolescent
Look at your figure! As thin as a string of cobweb
With a big stomach, like a loop. Or is it a bribe
That you ate to conceal whatever transpired between you?
And you're here convincing me to have you back?
And your words, those you spit on my face in a bark,
Consumed by the lethal power of forgiveness
I kept them behind my back - that I may never again recall
Because I patently knew that you will find a path back
Though I wandered and wondered how you would
We should be meeting now when pride
Has long gone and I have a humble bride
The torrents of life killed and created the better
Life has comped your unkempt character
Before your agony, bitterness and nostalgia
You said too much evil about me and called me brother
Welcome to your brother's house my sister
The husband you poached, maimed and ignored
The husband who has been nursed by that grave
The grave where sweet berries sprouts to thrive
The house whence her prostate heart lays,
The grave of grace whence no rose never sways
The cock you left to chase other hens
Will take care of you and the eggs that hatch in the bush
Where snakes and dogs licked and ate of the vomit
Which your best guy spit
Giving room for life to happen
Of course, it did, that's why you are here
Should my people ask you whence you're from
Tell then confidently, "from your mothers home."
And the black stick is not from a white tree?
Remind them that, "black hens lay white eggs."
©Demetrius White
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