The Last Supper!


Whilst one is showered
With praises,
And gifts made of gold,
For the same make believe cause
Old Isayas is left out in the cold.
A stalking horse, once a useful dark-force,
Now looks a walking corpse
With nothing to hold.

Nor on his behalf nothing to be told.
A dealer no ordinary schlockmeister
In a broad daylight who sold
Pyrrhic victory awash with Eritrean blood For filthy rich Arab dealers.
James Bond, Double O Seven,
With a face mark eleven
After roasting the hoi polloi in an oven,
With bullets and bombs as side dishes woven
As the Last Supper
For eternity to remember,
Everyone who partook
Evaporated to silky smoke.
This he felt paves his way to heaven,
Multitasked double agent
He has no time to lament.

Exterminate those who sat next
And ate sharing the same plate,
Sheltering in the same burrowed cabinet.

All these shenanigans for what you might ask?
The answer my friend
Is blowing in the wind..
He has a sick mind
You and I
How hard we might try,
Cannot mend,
Even if we stretch and bend.
Isayas Wdi Medhine Berad/በራድ
Once knew and bred and reared
Is no more biped
He suffers from Zoanthropy,
A mental disorder,
so rear;
Only one other, Demeke ዘውዴ,
A clown shares.

Yared Huluf


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