A tense dark-grey political cloud risen
Over the domain of Dzimbadzamabwe
Yet to rain hail, political storms in play
To stamp out the old Bastille in a flash
A symbol of despotism yet be washed
Down the sewage lines of Borrowdale
A million march to the Bastille, Down...
Mob rioting for parity, unity and liberty.
Damned be this casted sentiments for
Long the masses in distress, displeasure
Sufering from the soul political ulcers O!
Alas...* , the odd to cease with the seize
Its time the cock crawl at ease, pale audio
Retire from the self impossed hardships
Amnesia to speak of. The phonix showed
Mercy but never assured this muddlings