To My Uncle Tarkwa Atta - A Tribute (16)

has been
especially slow
and rather boring,
there isn't much
that is enlivening
to report
or talk about,
save that which
you already know –
and it is
the fact that
your exit continues
to be wildly relished
and celebrated
by the Shit-Bombers
in the dubious name
of grief;
in reality,
they are still
your nonesuch
elephant-kill –
you guessed it,
rather than contritely use
their own chunky bit
of the faux-judgment debt
from the Woyome Fund,
they decided to play
on the soft spot
of the people
by launching
a funeral donation
in your name –
funny though,
as yet,
nobody knows
how much
has been fetched
passing one of your
Stetson hats
down and
the aisles
of Makola and
markets –
and yet,
was all over
the airwaves
pretending to thank
in your name,
like a dead man
knows how to
cover his nudity
with a strip
of calico…
you guessed right,
once again,
the Stinking Cowhide guy
was at it again,
he has no idea
how many cadgers
have been passing
your Stetsons around;
and he couldn't
care less,
though he believes
out of the goodness
of the hearts
of the self-anointed
the correct number
shall be known
by the close
of the day…
fat chance,
like he just arrived
in town –
and boy
didn't he just
arrive in town…
he thinks
this whole damn thing
is a Cubano fiesta;
I am not
buying it…
after all,
wasn't it this same
Mister Stinking Cowhide
who collaborated
with Jato-Patapaa
to put the state's
prime realty
and factories
on the auction block,
and gifted
the cannery
on the cusp
of my ancestral land
to Jato's wife
in the dubious name
of divestiture,
legalized plunder,
that is…
and so
the probity and
and house-cleaning
goes on,
and there is
no telling
where it is apt
to end,
for there is
no kite
in sight
in the sky,
and none
of the aggrieved
and bereaved
are spoiling
for a fight…

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