By Tikum Mbah Azonga
I spy a brochure full of archetypes
I smell a rotten rat fabricated by five unstable gangsters
I hear shots coming from stereotyped archaeologists
And sodden and unleavened scars of burden.
I wish you were women to whom I’d hype
Or men for to whom I’d propose nuptial blues for starters
But alas, you’re nothing but boot licking apologists
How then shall I get to the Garden of Eden?