Youth shuffle in expectation

That the baton will pass

From dyed haired dying men

Thro’ the benevolence of cold stone hearts

But as the sun furls her rays

And night unbuttons her cloak of darkness

Wrest the baton they must

From wrinkled manicured fingers

For if they tarry; equivocate

Bottle in one hand and Their dicks in the other

The geezers in horn rimmed glasses

Might just have the last guffaw

©P.OCHIENG OCHIENG