She, chic

There they go - infidels, rogues
Plucking towns shamelessly;
Minced meat, sooting grills in their wake
And what does the chic do?

She, chief-in-command, is...
Distraught, limp, then cools off.
Timbuktu, Boakye were neighbors
Merry and laughter in tow

But a litter of bleeding girls wail.
The rest are cracked, then armed -
Cannon fodder are sent with fear
Emissaries to chic, from a bloated war.

THE OVERCAST

The overcast be reddened rooftops
Partial windbreaks
Walls of driedout generations of alga
The dominant color is abandoned gray
Years of colonization wins over every other
Blue, brown, white, even black
The heart of men be won over
That color of corruption be strong
The land, taken to ruins as such
Plenty be naught, fat now thin
Yet abandoned shelled out walls remains
And a few bloated pockets
Dotting the landscape that is Monrovia.