Mr. Politricksian,

When you dip sticky fingers
Into the nation’s treasury,
Do you not envision the figures
Made bonier by your treachery?

When you force only square blocks,
Into round pegs,
To dodge political knocks
And hatch party eggs,
Do you think of the masters holder, holding his head?
Do you think of his famished family, financially dead?

When you ship illegal sums,
Into your island accounts,
Don’t you hear the warning guns?
Don’t you think judgement will come?

When you shun integrity,
And bow down to bribery,
Do you feel no remorse
For neglecting right’s cause?

When you deliver to the masses,
Vows which are carcasses,
Does not guilt shoot her darts?
Do you not have a heart?

As you pierce the Nation’s Soul
And shred her to pieces,
Filling up corruption’s brimming bowl,
Though its stench matches faeces,

Can’t you see your peoples’ plight?
Is it not a piteous sight?
They are eating poverty food,
And slow death is their neighbourhood.

Why does it surprise you then,
When suddenly their troubles rise up and collapse on your head,
And you find yourself dead?

Mr. Politricksian,
Every day is for the thief,
But one day is for the master.
Mr. Politricksian,
Every day may be for you,
But one day is for your people
And on that day,
Your sins will find you out
And your tricks will catch up with you.