In a world where fascism is the fashion
And the dark skin-toned
Is relegated to being
The shadow of the “yellow-bone”
And the down-trodden,
Whose worth is next to nothing
Because that’s his neighbour,
He lives next-to-nothing.
He harbours copious knowledge
Like a shipment,
But he lives next-to-nothing…
The Synthetics are conscious.
Mr Baal Perazim Railucep the other way
Is awake
But, he can’t smell the black coffee
Because he now uses one hand
To make house music.
So I had to explain to him
That it came to life.
And how that,
While he was sleeping “Victor”,
“Invictus” came out
And the protagonists were foreign.
And the South Africans set back,
Listening to stories about themselves
And they were “proud proudly”
And the small contingent
That had problems
With the whole setting
Were ousted with pest-aside
Because they were rowdy.
And the rest of them
Wondered off like Stevie,
Throwing blind emotions
To the commotion.
And when they were closing His casket,
I think I saw an iris
Which may have belonged to Iris.
It rolled-up the people
And now
The Synthetics Are Conscious.
That insignificant, good-for-nothing
Is beginning to ask uncomfortable questions.
He is talking about Moses
And his rod,
He says a dead man can’t become a god.
He dares question the promotion
“From Homosapien to ancestor”
I tried stifling him
But little rascal has a bigger sister.
He claims to reflect the image
Of the invisible God.
He says he harbours the Paraclete.
I don’t know what
Half of it means,
But ever since then
The Synthetics Are Conscious_
