I also hope that you will seek out their works and read further or perhaps be moved to try writing in a similar style. I appreciate truly your eyes on this site.
Indeed, M. I admire the snappy wit of this verse-form — as well as M. Moise's sly slang — and I encourage you, dear reader, to seek out more of his work. The slave master invented heaven To reinvent its gods therein And dominate the poor men Unable their eyes to open. Those of puffed-up cognition Who talk of revolution Sitting in their kitchen Busy writing petitions.
We yak and yak about things While giving broad shruggings We live through the bustlings That signal the fight upcoming. The day the Negro intellects Take after the wet blankets And the gangs they do reject Their honesty they can collect. Tell me if those appalling crimes Are to our gods sacrifices Those millions of poor lives Wiped out before our eyes.
Words and still more words That make us worse dullards That cause us harm in hordes Profiting those feudal lords. They know nothing of love And every day dream thereof When they come across love They right away give it a shove.
And if we listened to the poets There would be no tempests But the sound of trumpets Celebrations, it requests. As the grandson and the nephew of lawyers, the son of a notary, and a lawyer himself, Serge H. He has loved fine literature since his early years. Ever since, Serge H. He is the author of at least poetic works and around general interest articles for the pages of newspapers around the French-speaking world.
