African Master Poem by David N. Munene

Sits cross-legged no more
Postpones every error to after life
His is nothing like strife
‘cept his bowels galore
He is the African master
And nothing should matter
Bullies wife with blow
Hushes slave to grave
Like does to chicks adult ave
Owns tracks of land
In ha more than fingers of hand
Doesn’t know how far it goes
If the river and river should burry
His hand soft like skin of goose
Yet his acts are soggy and bloody
Amass; amass; amass
Thief as much from the mass
No links with poverty
Father grabbed for son
Now son holds on like to sky, sun
Eons pass he is still the one
Monotonous in routine
Polygamous from the skin
“Do this” – his order
“Don’t be silly” – to his elder
For he is the African master
Till death to him does justice
And his seed shall suffice