Every breath, calls for, its worth in gold
Blares the, worn-out ethos, of this land
Without, lost soul, that Europeans, sold
It’s a, dying dystopia, made of, blood, tears, and sand!

Though glory, of past, didn’t last, till today
Bananas, did not, forget, to bear
Pittancees, of life, and death’s, foray
Whilst politics, plays, with this, land’s, faith and fear!

Two tires, tethered to, a metal rod
Is the cradle, and grave, of their misery
Sloughing, with the soul, of a, banana tree
In Burundi, Satan, plays with God
A faithless, bout of, fear’s treachery!

This, starchy sin, is, their, food and wine
And the, sum of, many an, undone epic
Who dream, of bread, o’er, hope’s goldmine
For The Bane, Of A, Banana Republic!

© 2022 Vikas Chandra