Everyday he has got a conversation in his head:
On how to make good an opportunity when it arises.
The young man's job at the moment is as milk vendor
For dairy farmer Fanuel Fundi; so to make some extra buck
He adds a litre or so of water to the milk and some
Blue band margarine to cream the milkwater;
With a little lowered prize the lowly masses of mukuru
Who can't afford packets of pasteurized milk
Would not drink true tea that day; by the end of the day
His boss would get his share, he remains with his share-
One a stolen share!After all aren't the bosses there
Doing it? tinkering with tenders, colluding with contractors,
Inflating bills intentionally with bought receipts
To falsify claims, and offering the loot to harampees?
Here in this land of plunderers the uncouth poor
And the obscene rich have spine to strangulate
The miserable masses with fraud and poor quality products!
For the sake of profit they become profligate and fake;
The search for unearned wealth constrict their conscience;
Such dead values cannot be measured in money
When the masses die of curable maladies, so much matters
Of concern in the ensuing cry for clear creeds of life.