The oil of mischief lubricates the grains of disaster
Arguments and screams; anguish heats up our meal
Boiling commotion in the green, white, green pot asunder
Shedding blood spices our deadly dinner deal
Like leaning lettuce, in dismay, we wonder who goes next
Beneath the plastic serration of our deadly context
We dice the onions of peace, propanethial blinding us
Chopping bleeding carrots of conscience apart
Veggies of unity; slicing boundaries we lay forth thus
Wicked mortars crush the lobster of our heart
Oh! Has a bubbling broth ever loved the heat it receives?
Or has a deer aflame relished in the whiff it perceives?
Sour parsleys of gossip, scents of the curries of foul talks
Sturdy condiment box of dumb apathy
Three seasoning cubes from the three shades of the black culture walks
Undone meat; half-cooked truth, force-fed tyranny
Youths unemployed lie vain like the kitchen pickle picker
Scandalous scullery with no laws to save the weaker
Dishing delicious portions on trays of segregation
Dining in dead silence, we feast on our deed
Tribalism, injustice, fork and knife congregation
Add a pinch of chaos, a teaspoon of weed
When it stings hot, we gulp down gallons of unending hate
Smiling in the pretence of good taste, accepting our fate
The cuisines our forefathers feasted on were life and light
Hence lies hope against our sheer frailty and crumbling delight
We eliminate the too many cooks that marred the dish
On a rekindling fire, we now heat the porridge we wish
We set streams of love; warm the spice of peace and goodness
Like parboiled grains; sieve our hearts of the starch of wickedness
Aflame in spirit, we still boil in true serenity
In an orderly dock where sauciers work in unity
Every bit of me and you is flavour to the bonne bouche
Every cut, every true slice for our meal is one great push
The Future Us would sit at this dining when we are done
And enjoying every savoury bite, they’ll eat as one.