For VISA stamp
Our youths set camp
Where day by day
They stand like clay
Their case to plead
With hearts that bleed.

Like scattered sand
From looted land
They’re blown away
And dumped like hay
On foreign farms
In snowy fields.

Drugged by the dream
Of constant cream
They drift on streams
In trembling teams
Or scale the skies
In floating files.

Like self-sold slaves
They snake their ways
To sniff the stench
Of GLAMOUR’S bench
And fight to feed
At feet of GREED.

In Dollar-Shrine
With silvery shine
They freeze and fall
And kneel and crawl
Like wretched whores
On marooned shores.

Trapped by the rope
Of hyped-up hope
They pawn their souls
For shadowy roles
To join the pits
Of ceaseless “Shifts”.

They dream of “Home”
And love to moan
About the sand
In “Paddle” land
Missing the Sun
And “Fambul” fun