Rise of furies emanates from the village,
Clanging cymbals of greed.
Raining over the canopy of the village;
Tearing through the barriers of life.
The wind of vengence swirls around;
Firing the pot of bloodshed,
Changing the smell of the sunny mornings.
Battleling oneother is the only hobby.
Surely a fight not worth our souls,
Making us matyres of emptiness.
Why cast away the fruit of our labour,
To follow away the greed of their failure.
Charging up the batteries of doom.
Ye beacons of doom,
Dressing up in glitters
Painting us in the filth of supposed wealth.
Helping cast away our tradition
Yet ye are custadians of culture
Drinking ip power like liquor
I tell you, this shall be the cover of transparency.
The village dreads your existence
Wishing the night engulfs your assets.
To set afresh a new height.
The Haymaker © 2014