Editor, thanks for the poets’ column!

I'm still here, a young man and no poet;

I carry the milkpail across the Orange,

clubs are at hand but I fight with lightning.

The earthquake spoke, spoke in broad daylight,

it spoke while we played, revealing its hand,

it spoke and left the white people stunned,

it left the Coolies wringing their hands.

The earthquake spoke with an eerie wail

while people's pleasure raised a racket.

The world's given to pleasure, ancient temptress,

recalling the world in days gone by.

The errant city surrendered to pleasure,

everyone sapped until their eyes popped.

Satan sings praises till his guts bust

at you Christians and us Reds.

The world's given to pleasure, a puzzling problem,

astonishing things happen here in Johannesburg,

rampant booze-ups and live-in lovers:

I've never seen booze so abused!!

Locusts are spreading among our youngsters,

gangsters are spreading throughout our land.

Look to this learning we boast about

and this culture we eagerly hound.

I slap your face to provoke discussion;

I fight with lightning, working magic.

Nothing's left. The thieves are there:

my words will kill if I expose you.

We live with God and Satan both:

which to take? The One Above.

We sit on the fence, won't take a stand,

the walking dead unfamiliar to God.

The dove of the marshes of Mara tells you:

today's like Sodom and Gomorrah again.

The mission stations of God lie waste,

abandoned by priests: we're bewitched.

You've been weighed and you're found wanting.

Look at the earthquake today. Stay awake!

All our customs were lost to the whites

when we turned our backs on the gods of our home.

Stop asking questions! Look at the earthquake!

Heathen habits are rampant.

Ah, black people, the land is sinking.

We're standing barren, bereft of dignity.

That being the case, my people,

let's return to our wonted ways

remembering Sodom and Gomorrah.

The dove of the marshes of Mara says so.

Peace!!