Minds Like Toys Poem by Jacob Muthoka

Don't cultivate result,
Cease to exist
Though for a while,
And they'll love you,
They'll buy you expensive,
They'll cry to beget you,
Because you ain't nothing
To them, but a toy.

Bosses who imagine crosses
To crucify all competing creativity,
On their records is none alive
A prudent finger but theirs,
Thus we all become fools,
Courteous fools,
That's why we get paid!

Then men laden with years,
Toss like a cotton grain
In a September storm,
Tossed by a social refuse,
A moral refugee, lunatic, everything
A man unwittying, like a baby
Excited by a toy bus
Is our boss the image.