This cradle of man, this voracious climbing vine,
Done-up like a salad bowl, posing as a mine,
We don’t sing but complain melodiously;
Never given anything we now expect for free.
Sun-treader comb your morning hair, sweep private roads in anger;
What of other highways? Go tell King Mwanga
The Royal House is empty, the servants all abroad,
Scattered to earth’s corners, a tuneless monochord,
Their hearts a lute for strumming, diseased the ebb and flow,
Sad cypress; unfulfilled watercress – what’s to know?