The protest

The protest.

There is hardly any spoon of well-cooked
Rice,that goes down your throat,
your trachea turns back,
hungry mouths swallow,yet
the process is slow and segmented,


The pouncing food protests,
just as the watch dog’s barks,
I am plundered and harvested,
from the field not belonging to you,
smeared with treachery, soiled

by greed ill-begotten,hawks and hounds
abstain from smelling that,
Perfidious, venom spits venom,
your coffer is dirty and rotten,
your vault is wrong begotten.