The vision of colonial
ballroom was all about
robbing the native master
a ball park view of
surrounding squalor.
They made it soundproof
to block the din of vernacular
and save sweet nothings
with arms around each other.
The swirl of petticoat
never messed with legs
of the beloved, tap of heals
in the heart of mahogany floor
was a sight only the native
waiter was made privy to.
Now after much independence
the native master with a
foreign mother wears
sun glasses in the dark
and hounds unfair
money and fair sex.
The ballroom is constantly festive
they all dance deftly to new tunes
their heels dig holes in
the bellies of the starved.
Tight security barricades wails,
hungry look for rail tracks,
climb high to fall from life,
but the dance of the wolves goes on.
