Mugabe’s dying reflections
“Ninety years old today and now nothing left to do,
There is simply no soul on earth left for me to screw.
I have succeeded in making Zimbabwe a place of living hell,
Most opposition I have killed; those who shout and yell.
I have ignored the people’s pleas for over thirty years,
Their pleas to have a healthy land brings me close to tears.
I hate White folk with a passion, of that all are aware,
Stealing their farms and livelihood I deemed very fair.
Grace, my typist, precious wife, a billionaire self made,
A far cry from poor Sally who was just a chamber maid.
I am told the great big wheel turns, as it did in my favour,
I am the Black man’s idol, his number one best flavour.
As I reflect upon my days, my lust for wealth and power,
The West will see me as Hitler in my closing hour.
My rhino skin cares little for their jibes and scorn,
Eating only caviar now, I have lost my taste for corn.
Thank you Britain and America for giving me this land,
With China and with Russia, they made a four piece band.
Thanks of course to South Africa too for helping rig the vote,
Please join me in my dying hour as I choose to gloat.
Robert Gabriel Mugabe whom Rhodesians love to hate,
These countries handed me Rhodesia on a silver plate.”
Written by Alf Hutchison Author of “Sounds of Distant Drums”
The drums are calling old man, and they are louder by the day.
They are calling you to judgement and now’s the time to pay
for the wrongs you’ve done your country and the trust betrayed.
So hear those drums swelling, hear well and be afraid.
You came to power on waves of hope that you would make your mark,
in a land that shone in Africa like diamonds in the dark.
In simple faith the people put their trust in your care,
and were repaid by the Fifth Brigade and the CIO and fear.
twenty eight years of motorcades and lavish trips abroad
a nations heritage is lost through patronage and fraud.
The Chiefs grow fat while people starve and famine stalks our homes.
On idle farms the weeds grow rank and cover cattle bones.
the youth are taught your slogans but even as they sing
the drums of change are beating for the truth is seeping in.
The demagogue has feet of clay and lies will not sustain
the shattered land that once seemed free and will be so again.
Too late to blame the drought, the Brits, the whites, the MDC.
For all know where the finger points with cold finality.
So hear the drums, old man, and listen to them well,
They foretell of your end days and they have much to tell.
for he who sows the seeds of hate will reap the grapes of wrath,
so tremble in your bed at night, at the end of your sorry path.