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Mr. Bushman

Mr. Bushman,
The king of jungle venture,
With wings of hope and dangling gesture
Slain'er of dreams
The archer of faith
The stalker of rears.
Tip-toe to mimic like wounded antelope,
With sight to kill.

Boom! Boom!
Sky high booms the hunter's Barret,
Wrath'ing against vistas,
Tearing down traveling wind with hooking claws
Amok, the jungle venture-rs run,
Flee, the travelers sky abscond,
And the jungle fever,
Now a curse upon the laps of rage.

Furious with thirst of spade,
Like a gladiator's wrath,
Supple, famished fingers fiddling the bow,
Against lice at flight,
Who challenges you then?
When weapon all at your weaponry camped.
But when near is war,
A tale to tell becomes the weapons rebel,
And then a question drops on the ember,
Is your weaponry no match to the magics of the faun?
Or the commander is no man of war?
For what course are they then?
When at war they seem no more.

poem by Folayemi Akande
Added by Poetry Lover
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