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By Wisdom Mumera

Sit up straight all you fickle fellows
Its news time
Let us share the smoking fag the anchor will light up
That the enemy is still at the gates
Plotting more insurrections against the mass body of our initiative,
Another sellout has been dragged to the courts, or
We have just given birth to another revolution.

The smoke shall curl up from his lips
Not like holy incense from a face powdered Priest, more like a visible fart
From an obnoxious baby
We won’t crinkle our noses, that would be treason
No, we will lick the coils of smoke from the air and in fake digestions of taste
Ruminate over them for some moments
Moments which in reality are full of nothing,

Then we shall sit back in the haze and daze of a state produced marijuana
Laughing at the wind that sought to strangle us
Cackling at the shadows that hold spears against our chests
Sneering at everything that has a vendetta against our drive.
Don’t choke when you suck the smoke, that can be treason
When then ripples of a cough are spinning towards the exit
Clamp tight your lips and act ecstasy, and everything will be fine.

The cough will wear away down there in the cavities
Of your own revolution, wearing away till its previous existence surprise your very sanity.
Sit up straight and partake of this joint
It has got state immunity from being illegal

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