An asylum is what cities strive to be,
All but the silences of it-
Unnecessary busy modes of transport transport;
Of which men and menful women hide in and on;
Talking to themselves-
Yet threatening to keep themselves unaroused of the realisation that it is to their own lone they talk;
They call it wireless.
Decorating collars with knots-
And cuffs with cufflinks;
Once more in manacles;
Lusaka has been accepted.
There is a whole world out-
Waiting on you;
To this knowledge brimming of esoteric keep steadfast;
For the stone city bothers no longer with sleep;
Honking,Pop music and harlots moaning in exaggerated bliss-
Having something to do with economics.
A mind warped in the idiocrisy of infancy dreams even whils't awake;
Always striving to remain dreaming despite Mother Knocking for to give childhood porridge;
Whose aspect only serves as a winding,moist and slippery stairway to a necropolis of reminiscences.
Now let there be Will;
First it was Will to find a way-
Down to bare Will.
Scribbling everywhere,
Fiddling anywhere;
A fiendish mind continues to keep a dream;
Somewhere in a mollycoddle little town in the breast of backwardness-
An intellectual harlequin refrains for to awake.
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