The men loved the brew more than life
They congregated everyday to listen to sermons
Sermons inspired by chang’aa induced stupor
Sometimes the spirit instructed them to grab
A collar or another, and dare to eviscerate the aggressor
Talking in eloquently slurred language
A language that will dissipate with the morning dew
If they make it home alive
Barmuriat staggered home one night and fell into the river
There, he slept and never woke up again
Truphena’s husband lay by the roadside one evening
And succumbed to intoxication that very night
Kiptum’s father, while drunk, undressed in the rain
And died peacefully, his soul pounded by the pouring rain
Haggard, shabby and unsightly men hover
In and out of drinking dens, courting death. and oblivion
Wives and children have since ceased praying for them
Their tear glands have run dry, leaving a desert of tenderness
A grave yard of cares, love and compassion
While alive, they are used to their absence
If they do not resort to violence to pass their crude
messages
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