By Ngartia

I’m sitting in a bus, going to my sister’s
A drunk beside me, stench of cheap liquor.
A half empty bottle of brandy in his pocket
Stains of cheap lipstick on his shirt,
Bright red, maybe from a common slut
I would’ve opened the window for air,
But flies might fly in, I fear.
He is reading one of the local dailies
The fact that he can read is itself, a surprise
And when I least expect a word from the fiend,
He says, “pray, tell me my dear friend,
What causes this disease, athritis?”
After a shocked moment, I bark my thesis
“Cheap drinks, vile women, disrespect for God and oneself “
He shakes his head and mutters an “oh my” to himself
After second thought and a minute of self reprimanding,
“Am sorry, are you a patient?” I ask, apologising
“Oh No! I’m healthy
Very very healthy” he answers,
“I’ve just read, it’s a disease from
which the Pope suffers!”

© ngartia