Last laugh, by Tom Mukasa

Last laugh

walking at a brisk pace,
another wayfarer,
equally purposed,
bumps into me,
we exchange,
our sorrys,
at the same brisk pace,
this time on a less,
traveled street,
below so many storeys,
where homes are,
warm and cozy,
a mis-hapen flower-pot,
relieved of its place,
perhaps by a kick or broom,
almost landed on my head,
what a fright it caused,
then,
where this street,
touches another,
someone,
probably in the night's quiet,
had felt it right,
and left a dump,
to whom it may concern,
at a brisk pace,
my foot,
almost stepped,
right into it,
side-stepping,
only to step,
in vomit and urine,
I recalled,
an African saw,
about the rats and mice,
and how,
they have the last laugh,
for in paring off,
where they nibble,
at a potato,
 yam,
bread,
we, 
humans,
then eat,
what part,
we think,
is not,
defiled,
by them,
for,
 it is their way,
to sit,
 on the food,
they nibble,
 bite at,
as a way,
of holding,
this food,
 in one place,
the rat and mice,
this is what they say:
'humans avoid where we bite,
but eat where our butts touch!'

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