These Men Don't Sweat For Us Poem by Wafula p'Khisa

a girl, blinded by darkness of naivety, smiles back
at every creature behind tinted windows of hired wheels
until she follows him to bed to realize how beastly he is
He'd have already broken her leg when he pulls out.

A politician doesn't go to a funeral to mourn
but to lay bare his lust for power
and gather souls that'll see them through the ballot
So don't trust their tears, gushing out easily
like water from a broken pipe
Don't trust the handsome handouts they dish out easily
like relief food to some hunger-stricken earth children in Turkana
They are baits that'll drag you into lifelong debts and misery!

So when you demolish your creaking shack
to seek refuge in some air-conditioned palaces across the ridge
where men eat stolen meat & wash it down with finest drinks
as their subjects below salivate bitterly;
You're selling out your people, and sinning against the gods
Nobody ignores the agony of his people to pamper his stomach!

Better we eat dust and strain our muscles more
Stay awake, turning poor earth to cough out something
Than sit here grumbling, forever waiting for manna
or tear each other over the crumbs falling off the king's table
Who ever lived off one's pocket for eternity?