Poetically Incorrect

Listen Bro,
The other day I saw you at morn,
machete in hand, hoe in the other,
bag of food around your neck,
racing with the dew,
steps fueled by chirps of dawn
in synch with the grasshopper hops,
to your garden you went,
why?

Let me tell you bro,
My hoe is my pen,
the school my father sent me to,
my tests are taken under the shade of the clouds,
my glistening sweaty sun baked back feeds my kids,
My wife loves my rough hands that scratch pleasure out of her,
I live by the soil brother.

Listen bro,
hoes are for the uneducated,
machetes are for the fools,
you paint your feet with soil,
sweat is your lotion,
you soil your hands with spit to feel the grip,
you are poor that's why

Let me ask you bro,
do you eat pens and papers,
do those humming machines prepare your supper,
do the fumes test your appetite,
like my wife's kitchen does,
does your girl eat selfies?
do your kids love talking to you,
when your eyes are glued to the telly?

Listen bro,
this is a new century,
where the past matters not,
where babes are priced,
Here in the cities,
we live with the beat,
the rush,
the hustle,
the dodge of friends and foes,
we live in fear of tomorrow,
that's what feeds us.

You see bro,
I hear in the city,
you breathe smoke in tonnes,
I hear in the city,
your generosity is limited,
its give and take,
I hear your tall building
have no match to the short skirts,
the fast cars
have no match to the slow queues,
I hear your gentle men,
are the same father's of street kids,
I hear men can't take care of families,
I hear wives aren't satisfied
they look for the younger age,
I hear in the city...

By Rapando

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