Heavy thick lumps of blood on the streets of Kampala,
Loud noise and cries from all the corners
from old and young moppets,
Bullet sounds, and teargas fume pollutions, ...
Browning, old fellow,
Your leaves grow yellow,
Beginning to mellow
As seasons pass.
Your cover is wrinkled,
And stained and sprinkled,
And warped and crinkled
From sleep on the grass.
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