In some future time
the only rain will come
from some billionaire’s eyes
as they apologise
for downtime or stolen data
(how their pretty mouths quiver).
Laughing we’ll tie them tighter
& hoist them higher
(in their lovely silk attire)
singe & sizzle, toast their toast
as we dance around the fire.
The squeal of the fiddle,
the wheeze and the wobble
& the dancers go clomping round
round & round that sanguinary ground
‘neath a sky full of ashes
in some future time.
Today’s music to write poetry to comes from Gétatchèw Mèkurya from the streets of Addis Ababa with something to get you dancing round that fire.