Poems by Kabedoopong Piddo Ddibe’st

Poems by Kabedoopong Piddo Ddibe’st



Crossibills, Crossibills, Crossibills!
Dark I am, I am black,
I am coloured like the Hornbills,
I am the tongue of the tyrant,
I am the lock and block,
I am the hand that plucks
At the crimson cold bricks;
But am I the shadow of death
Or the death of shadow that plucks
The skins of your bricks, Crossibills?

Crossibills, Crossibills, Crossibills!
I am the Cross, I am the Bills,
Polling unjustly on the top of Wiles,
Where the rock of ambition blinds,
Sealing lips like rotten white ants,
Whose single hand of falsehood finds.
I am the root of all grassed Guiles;
The payroll ghosts, coats hung in public offices,
I am the unknown you know,
If you cry, I will tax your tears.

Crossibills, Crossibills, Crossibills!
The blades of grasses in my hands,
The Daughters of Discords in debate,
For extended years of tenures, and limitless age,
Famines cooking in famished tummies,
Sort out worms from the mushrooms,
Break the begging fingers and walking bones,
Sit them down on the bed of nails,
Where my angels play the mother drum with barrels,
I am the secretary’s pen, the beginning of ruse.
I am my advisor, the table of the jury,
The Alpha and Omega.
Crossibills, Crossibills, Crossibills!
Pay your full taxes today,
And win a new Motorola Car.
Your housing bills, your lightening bills,
For the healing walls and learning walls,
Pay your water bills and road bills;
Those are not called taxes,
Those are just revenues,
And revenues are taxes.
I am the burdens, I am the chains,
I am your landlord, I am the Mockingbird!


Crossibills, Crossibills, Crossibills!
I am Crossibills whose name you bellow with,
I am the bird that feeds you,
I am the carrier of your cross,
I am the voice of the voiceless,
The bittersweet truth in the dark,
The beautiful potholes on the roads,
The hungry purse, the tongue of the oppressed,
The ear of the deaf, the father of orphans,
The eye of the blind, the husband of widows.

I am the vacuum school libraries,
The destitute hospital drugs,
I am the falling Walls of Jericho,
The pus-opener, the shot messenger,
I am the water gourd of a thirsty hunter,
The meagre salaries of doctors and teachers,
The yawning jaws of the jobless youths,
Don’t imprison my truth, just tax me,
I am the bicycle that fell on the England Queen.

I must pay my truth tax,
Have you already paid yours?
I paid my Sin Tax, Duty Tax, Hut Tax,
Pull Tax, Push Tax, Poll Tax,
PAYE Tax, Tax Per Head, Tolerance Tax,
Ghetto Tax, Love Tax, Road Tax,
Council Tax, Poverty Tax, Death Tax,
Window Tax, Saucepan Tax, Custom Tax,
TV Tax, Radio Tax, Telephone Tax,
Movement Tax, Mobile Money Tax, Social Media Tax.

Don’t you need better roads,
Better hospitals, better schools,
Better public toilets, better traffic jams,
Better militia jets, and higher taxes,
Better motorcades, better Parliament,
Better MPs and life President?
All those benefits are only got
If you pay your taxes fully, timely.
I have done my part, and you?
I don’t mind though — born free but taxed to death.

Let’s pay our taxes today,
And then save the future now,
For God and My Stomach,
The poor pay,
The clergy pray,
The powers prey.
Be obedient to the powers that be,
Says the Holy Book,
`For God to God,
For Caesar to Caesar. `
And pay. And pay. And pay.



A sweet dance in nakedness,
No drumbeats on the palms of grass,
It is drizzling lions and elephants,
But they are dancing with dust,
Rushing up to the head of the sky.

Midnight attracts them outside,
For their usual peculiar rituals
Of dancing round cold houses,
Revoking the names of the dead,
Blessing life with blessed cusses.

The night dancers wear snow white
For the black amnesias of the night,
Scheming sacred sleeping scandals,
As they burn incense and candles
To light their pathways to darkness.

Wet dreams drench the grasses,
Nightmares chase life with guns;
They then sit to share the spoils;
Their laughters ripple in darkness,
Their swaying wands turn to snake coils.

These dancers play on public thighs,
With their cold egos to spread petals,
Petals of blood on their red Carpets;
Revenge is chief on coldblooded sighs,
Nights are dancers on dwarf planets.



Life is but an onion,
You peel, you weep;
And wipe the tears.

Life is but a dream,
You dream, you scream;
And you wake up dead.

Life is but a whole madness;
You show, I see,
But you are pretty sane.

Life is but a wind;
You feel, it blows;
And gone is the wind.

Life is but an onion;
You peel and weep,
Anytime is weeping time.

Life is but a tea,
A burnt tea in a cup,
Fill and feel your tea.

Life is but a comedy,
You show on stage,
And a coldblooded tragedy,
We all, then, watch pass.



That here you lie, dear Gelert,
On the high foot of Mount Wales,
That in your dark narrow room,
No more church bell sounds alert,
To wake you up for the untold tales.

O dear agony for you, dear Gelert,
Thousands years a sad score,
My wife at birth gone, a kicking baby,
So wretchedly weeps my lonely heart,
So profusely do my eyes bleed forevermore.

Gelert, my faithful friend, O how I weep!
That no glimpse of the baby cradle,
And the flood of blood on the floor,
Nurtured my wild anger without sleep,
Only wielded my sword to battle.

A trail of blood, no thought of mercy,
I thought you killed somebody,
Only to see the country wolf lay,
Whose blood stained your fur,
To save my infant thought of death,
Of my little baby who’s alive and kicking.

Now, here I stand in your memory,
I stand on your overlying Beddgelert,
Reciting prayers for your soul to God,
In remorse, I lay the sad wreathory,
Anger kills your only faithful dog.

©Kabedoopong Piddo Ddibe’st


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