The gay parade of gobstopper-coloured
cars rolls slowly past the dais.
The man we now call Mister President,
smiles and takes off his ray-bans,
in a rare and generous gesture,
before retiring into Government House,
which we are still learning to call
the Presidential Palace.
Soldiers march in furious solemnity,
their guns bruising their bony young shoulders.
On the horizon a cloud of locusts
approaches, with its own
political agenda.
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