How was your coffee Johnny
when you saw the morning rag.
A man who cried for help
closed his eyes and now is dead.


From a place you can’t pronounce,
at the bottom of a well.
His life was hard enough,
but you made it into a hell.

In a mountain and no one else,
the Poet dreamed of greener fields,
but your heart turned to stone
had your way and his fate was sealed.

How was your coffee Johnny
when you read it in the news
that a man who fled from terror
lost his life at your refuse.

It really doesn’t matter now.
You chose the life of leisure,
but those who live or die
they still do it at your pleasure.

But Hussain must live on
as a blight on your soul.
He can’t feel a thing now,
his body turned charcoal.

Your legacy lives on.

Foto: The Poet