Drums for us, the wasted Masters
Catafalques for them, covetous Generals.

How far have they gone in wasting us,
In ruining our harvests —
Bloodsucking Generals with shrivelled scrotums?

Crowned predators.
Embellished idiots.
Distinguished poachers —

They skulk,
Insisting on dark, curfew nights
In seasons of bloodguilt;

They tread softly,
Walking corpses abroad a silent necropolis.
They crawl, gathering strength of watchdogs' dung
With which to smear our national symbols.

The drums are frenzied,
Cutting holes with possessed beats
To ensure hurried burials for the Generals
On whose heads are diadems of woe.