The Sons Poem by raymond letsitsa

A child unto us is born
Decaying in the armpit
The child of scorn
Ruling with an iron fist
His vestures torn
Doing just fine like Boys 2 Men
Deceiving like the son of spawn
Dealing in drugs like the ghetto thugs
Killing the police for vengeance
His kind chain smokes to escape
The tragedies of up bringing
in violence
Homes of domestic abuse where
Children hungered to death
Suspended in the air of rage
Surrounded by tempests
That deterred his age
Molested by pagan christians of race and color
None knows the validity
Of his hunger or valour
Digging in the public trash-cans for daily bread
Every corner smells him near as cesspools
The fountain of the weary
Drowns the unlearned fools
Of oppressive governance
His daughter is the neighborhood prostitute
A female retail sale for men who feel
impotent and destitute
His wife was killed by the hiroshima
Blown away like tree roots
Under the breath of a Tsunami