David is a journalist in Paris and edits The Lesser Flamingo ezine.
© 2009 David Whitehouse
the zulus are coming
the black horde steams off the plain's horizon
we have guns and they have sticks
we're soldiers, they're part-time
but they are many, we are few.
as the zulus swarm forward
i don't wait to run out of ammo; face down in the long grass
i play dead. the tribal chants hang in the air,
fire sticks and cannon hold their eyes
as they traipseblind over me;
soon i'll shed my red coat and crawl back to camp.
but bright spark Lofty, my england childhood friend, hoists me up
on horseback. he has this to say:
do you think i would leave you lying there,
when there's room on my horse for two?
stupid bastard, i curse, then die as the spears rain on us;
but when the zulus carve our corpses where they lie
to set our spirits free and onward, i start to see his point
i had to give my plane back
when the market crashed
but my open-top underwater car,
zero-emission and made to order,
is due to arrive in 2012
catch a wave and you're sitting on top of the world
All work is property of David Whitehouse.
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© 2009 SubtleTea Productions All Rights Reserved