Thunderously they tell me
no squatters NO BLOODY SQUATTERS,
this fertile land belongs
to highly respected persons
drop-waist-bellied gentlemen
and mountainous buttocked ladies
crowned with schooled minds
architects of the yesteryear struggle.

Violently, stupidly and oppressively
My hard-erected plastic-walled mansion,
they pull down to foundations,
ironing flat on the ground
my all-life amassed box of property
by their angrily thundering bulldozers
driven by wage-famished rustics
my neighbours
my comrades
my equals.

'Go go elsewhere but here!'
rumbles the snug bug at the crest
to us the ill-favoured
stoically sauntering through
smog choked desert-avenues of life
while thrusted on the back of FATE.

The allegorical 'elsewhere'
indirectly implies be no more,
like dew in rising hot sun go off
the rugged face of unfair Earth,
for the heavenly chosen to enjoy
the precious inheritance
the sweet-juicy fruits
of our forebears' land
good black land
land for all
cost litres of red blood to recoup
true-sons-of-the-soil's LAND.

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