This poem shall speak of the wretched sea that worship to the shores of Mother's crying. Their younger ones swallowed up by the seas. This poem shall say nothing new. This poem shall speak of time. Time unlimited. Time undefined. This poem shall call names, names like Lumumba. Keita, Kuma, Obama, Hattani Bal, Akhenaton Malcom, Gavi, Jackie Robinson, Halis Lassi, Jesus Christ. This poem is vex about the party, racism, fascism. The Ku Klux Klan, Ryerson, Brixton, Atlanta, Jim Jones, and Egypt, Abijan. This poem is revolting against the First World, Second World, Third World, Division, Manmit Decision. This poem is like the rest. This poem will not say anything new. This poem is not going to be taken literally. This poem will not be coated by politicians nor religions. This poem is not like bombs, guns, blood, fire, blaze for freedom. Yes, this poem is a drum, a shanti, Mao Mao, a bow, Europa, and that bingo warrior. Ruru, Ruru, Ruru, Namibia, Ruru, Ruru, Luanda, Ruru, Ruru, Campara, Ruru, Ruru, Ruru, Soweto, Ruru, Ruru, Atanarivo. This poem is not to be changed. This poem needs to be changed. This poem is a rebate of the people that are raising and working on the standing. In the present situation we are living in is chaos. This poem speaking has spoken. This poem shall continue even when poets have stopped writing. This poem shall survive you, me, shall linger in history, in your mind, in time forever. This poem is time, only time will tell. This poem is still not written. This poem has no point. This poem is just a part of a story. His story, her story, her story, the story still untold. Making you want to stop. But this poem is stupid. This poem is real. This poem is long cannot be shot. This poem cannot be deemed, cannot be blamed. The story is still not told about this poem. This poem is old, this new. This poem was copied from the Bible. Yes, this poem was copied from your prayer book. This poem was copied from the playboy magazine. This poem was copied from the NY reader digest Kamarun Tribune, Jean-Afrique economic. The CIA files, the KGB files, the B files. This poem is not the secret. This poem shall go boring, stupid, senseless. This poem, which in you trying to get sensed. This poem is making you try to stop reading this poem or listening to this poem. But this poem shall not stop. You need to know what is said next in this poem. This poem shall disappoint you because this poem shall continue in your mind, in your mind, in your mind. Yes, yes, yes.