I crave the indulgence of my pockets,As I embark on this journey of no definite return,If I work my ass off in the morning,And crown it in the evening with a keg of 'pammy',On whose account do I credit the receiver?And in whose name would I debit the giver?I crave the indulgence of your pockets,As I begin this milestone of no return,After working my ass off on the farms,With the hope of a future assured,And some big fat ants and their masters,Supported by some gone-gores,Kills my only hope of survival in harvest,In whose name can I fight this raging injustice?And now comes Hemi-strata,Dangling in the face the hope of 10 shillings for a thumb,That's a pot of soup for one week,Bundles of stomach disturbances at stake,But even bundles of future infrastructures in the mud,The future can wait while I eat my tomorrow's yams,I will choose a thousand times the piece of my stomach,Than a penury-stricken peace of mind. Even in the midst of plenty I sacrifice my harvest,For morsels of democratic malfeasance,My harvest returns as levies,For huge benefits of pocket and imaginary disgrace,I toil in the day, only to be rewarded in the night,By a bunch of international disgrace in an unholy matrimony,A wedding presided by a priest-in-deceit,Sordid marital vows renewed every four years in dishonour,I so prefer the peace of my stomach,Than an already massacred piece of my soul.
