by Leonard Fong Roka
Down the concrete blocks they march,
Combed…
Brushed…
Buttoned… and tucked, like all they diplomat at Waigani.
Debate they is, in tongue of the whitefella,
Fluency…
Confidence…
Advancement… and determination so bright like morn.
Gone are the norms of the progeny…
Gone are the dreams…
Gone, the formulas of magic that kept the land alive…
Gone the old man’s insights of health…
Grandpapa, had him yard shining before him garden belching…
And you, oh, necktie man?
I laugh at you!
You rest and refresh with you fingered nostrils
Rot suffocates you…
Dirt adorns you…
Passers laugh at you…
Yet you no heed as you is professional…a social dastard!
You are a professional…
With professional lawns?
Professional loo styles?
Professional peeing?
Oh, you is public mimicry; laughable stock!
Uncivilized African baboons
Perfumed, you crotonise…and later rinse
In a stinging loo and tub…
Oh poor fool!
My home is civilized…
Then a university!
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