With a mind like that the poet must be mad
Many men...
(He lost his marbles)
Many women...
(Poetry did this to her)
We believe
What we want to believe
He is keen to see the things
We want to see that they're
Not where we see them
With the one working ear he
Listens with tear stained
Sympathy to the outraged
Complaints of the robbed robbers
With the other not there slashed
Ear he opts not to hear the soaring
Jazz score of the pious whose only
Sin is to escape the wrath of the
Beleaguered match fixers
He's a poet of you know
So in his distress he married himself
Off to another word smith his daughter
Bought him a sympathy card and wished
The soon to be born child God's mercy
Nobody wants to be brought up in
Such a passionate household for sure
He writes with a passionate intensity
With a half crazed mind like that
Your resident poet must be hovering
Somewhere on the peripheries of madness
We learn nothing from the past the past
Haunts us because we learn nothing from history
Wearily our uneventful lives follow where
Where we walk our sloth like walk
poem by Ngaka Motaung
Added by Poetry Lover
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