And while every where they may be extinct, Here in Africa, the Dinosaurs still live, Their giant prints in our lives are still distinct, And it seems these great beasts indeed are immortal.
Africa’s road to maturity are strictly guarded, Painted in blood and littered with bones, Shamelessly scavenged by neo-colonialist, And constantly pelted with poverty, disease and stones.
In Zaire, Togo, Gabon they run a monarchy, In South Rhodesia all are Billionaires, all are poor, In Kenya, Somalia, Burundi it’s anarchy, And to Libya the West firmly shut her door.
So come, let us sing nursery songs, about; The flamboyance of the Bokasa-saurus, The affluence of the Mobutu-saurus, The longevity of the Mugabe-saurus, The infamy of the Idi Amin-saurus, The defiance of the Gaddaffi-saurus, And the lavishness of the Bongo-saurus.
These giants terrorize our uncharted paths, Their perceived foes are persecuted, prosecuted, For their assets, please do the Maths, The story of the Dinosaurs will go on forever.
I stand before the mirror and practice my speech, It's a long speech that I must myself teach, To speak with a fake Oxford accent and inflection, A speech that would say nothing yet rumbles on, Falling on deaf ears that trigger automated applause, I practice so that if I can believe that so was I born, Then maybe the world would believe it's no con, soon the world would see, witness what I'm meant to be, but till then, I'm a Big-Man-in-Waiting. Because I'm a Big-Man-in-Waiting, I practice hard everyday, I wear arrogance like an expensive suit, Spic and swank, black as soot, with a matching hauteur black boot, with which I step on toes everywhere I go, I wear pride like an offensively bright tie, and reek of extravagance like cheap perfume. Though I'm not a big man yet, I'll surely be one, Till then, I need all the practice I can get. I'm learning to be fashionably late, to throw tantrums about little things that don't matter, like the temperature of champagne and it's …
I'm being slowly cooked in this sardine tin on wheels, The sweltering heat outside matched by the humid heat
inside, An exoskeleton forms as grime settles on my clammy hide The seats are so closely packed, My knees almost touch my chest, Surely, this must be the Purgatory, It’s anguish without respite. A slobbering drunk tries to fall asleep on my shoulders, The stench from his mouth forming an unholy fusion With the nauseating odor of boiled egg and pepper being
eaten behind me, Meanwhile, A phone rings a little too loudly a little too long, Startling a baby and who joins in its vexing song, The sting of cheap cologne bring tears to my eyes, My senses scream from the surplus stimuli, Suddenly; The drunk starts to snore; loudly. In one sublime move the driver violates 4 or 5 traffic
regulations, While lavishing flamboyant insults on other roads users, I feel my joints popping with vehement protestations, As the driver makes no attempt to dodge the many potholes, Potholes artfully arranged not to loo…
Now the day is over, We steal into the field of the dead, The eternal Gateman at last is sober, Finally, we check in for our final rest.
The night Watchman awaits you, me, He will out wait us in silence, Copper coins will be offered to the Ferryman, We’ll cross the Styx courtesy the Watchman.
Puritanical hypocrites fill our everyday, Infants enjoying their infancy, Adults sweetly enjoy adultery, Night however draws nigh, The Watchman will shepherd us with a sigh.
The Night Watchman will remain Ages and ages hence, He will be at the Devil’s auction, He will be at Heaven’s congregation, When we are torn ‘twixt these worlds, ‘tis he who flips the coin to decide our fate.