No one enters “him” and comes out same;
Its either a picked pocket or a torn shirt.
Looking like an extra sized train,
rusty floor, leaking roof and full of dirt.
I call it THE YELLOW MAMBA,
Painted yellow with thick black lines;
A true depiction of the poverty swagger,
Notoriously evident in the colonial times.
Tuale to one of the beauties of Las-Gidi,
Which the BRT came to replace.
Manned by men so hard and rigid,
Demanding fares with no smile on the face.
The MOLUE, how I miss you,
Bringing to mind, days of humble beginnings;
Scarcely seen now in places a few,
Bid you farewell with your scary tidings.
