A Shadow Of Iba

Silence comes and the leaflets drop
Imagery blurs of serpentine smoke
Epiphanies of the eye, pop
On the forthcoming of you, bloke:
Iba.

Your name the mouth will never tell
Neither will limbs uphold you t'night;
Nor nostrils welcome your crude smell
From your vulturine armpits' plight.
Iba.

Men, dilate foodpipes o' hungry graves
Women, tear-logg'd than water pots
Children cry in crest, trough of waves,
All had done all and cast their lots
Iba.

And I am still here, mild as breeze
Waiting for you to passaway,
With your weariness, flu and sneeze
You enthrust upon me today.
Iba.