Oh, you wretched soul,

You scream and you shout and you mock me,

but you know not how,

a country is built, from sampans to skylines

You sit in front of your

sorry screen, typing tirades against

the ghosts of your ineptitude,

the regrets of your childhood,

when you chose machas and ah lians

over teachers and ten-years

You finger me, but the answer lies

in front of you, with your screen turned off,

and your pride pressed deep,

into your mud-stained Bata,

dirtied in drains then

masked with paint

But truly white, you’ll never be

and truly shrug, I never will

Behold my elite, caring face

Oh, you wretched soul

~

Oh, you wretched soul,

Shallow’ed be your bowl,

Hallowed be my bowl,

Yours iron, mine gold,

Hallowed be my bowl

~

Oh, you wretched soul,

You say you deserve more,

yet you know not about merit,

about equality for men

That if you lived

in any other place, you would

be nothing, a servant for suckers,

a driver for drunkards, a flag for fanatics

But here I make you something,

a servant for saints, a driver for diplomats,

a flag for the red, white, and white, For

all the world’s a rage, and this

your sole salvation, your Harried Heaven

A person like you has no more wants,

says my army of quants

Who says I don’t rhyme? Who says I don’t rap?

I’m too cool for your school, but

don’t look at my watch,

heavy on my thick skin, For you

will forever afford the most affordable forevers

The peasant in paradise is still in paradise

Oh, you wretched soul

~

Oh, you wretched soul,

Shallow’ed be your bowl,

Hallowed be my bowl,

Yours iron, mine gold,

Hallowed be my bowl

~

Oh, you wretched soul,

You groan about graft,

You moan about fellatio

But it is I who gives you morals, it is I who gives you virtue,

which I marshall with my cane, bloodied by Barisan buttocks

And when we do no wrong, it is because of

the sugar we need to keep us sweet

Peanuts for monkeys, so clubs, Cordons and chariots for Gods

And when the mortals among us are caught,

we drop them off our jumbo jet

Thank us for telling you that

The more we drop, the faster the jet

And the faster the jet, the more saviours to Savour, in

this endless ascent from perfect flats,

tai chi and wayang anytime, That’s

what they say,

for I cannot hear you, I cannot see you

Our lives touch but once,

In the heap of wooden sticks

that guard the hum free mee,

Don’t kong si mee,

Our makan’s the same, but

How’s the air down there?

Oh, you wretched soul

~

Oh, you wretched soul,

Shallow’ed be your bowl,

Hallowed be my bowl,

Yours iron, mine gold,

Hallowed be my bowl

~

Oh, you wretched soul

Oh, you wretched soul

—————————————–

My other poems:

What the papers white out

My little red bag