A poem from Attila Jozef. Should read “fifty two” instead of “thirty two”
Today I have turned thirty-two,
my present is this verse I’ll do:
pretty
ditty.
A gift with which I’ll now surprise,
in this cafe apostrophise
my self
myself.
Thirty-two years have disappeared,
a living wage is what I need
my land!
my land …
I could have been an educator–
not a fountain-pen wearer-outer
busted
bastid.
But I didn’t because at school
I got busted by a fool
master-
tester.
His warning hit me swift and raw
(my “I’m an orphan” verse he saw);
the land
with hand
uplifted he is sworn to save.
My spirit shall now implicate
