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The Broke Guy

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My life stinks because i’m a broke guy: my father is a post sixaginarian peasant farmer in the native rural of Zimbabwe.

I have no money to buy steak, I feed on grass throughout the year like a grasshopper.
My veins are turning green but anyway I grin.

I have long and tangled hair like Samson but i don’t have stamina,
My little strength comes from sadza, veggies and damn soya bean chunks.

I’m a broke guy, I don’t have money to buy cutlery. I don’t have a knife in my house,
I cut those veggies using a broken saw-blade.

I thank God that I’m a very creative guy, I drafted a plan on how to save money:
Now I feed on milk like a toddler;
Milk doesn’t need to be cooked, it neither needs added some vegetable oils, salt nor spices.

I’m a broke guy, in my house I have no bed and a proper pillow to rest my head on.
I lie directly on the floor being tangential to the general mass of the earth.
I hope on the other hand it improves earthing systems
By providing an extra-easy path to earth fault and earth leakage currents from
High voltage transformer substations and high tension transmission lines back to their sources.

I’m a broke guy: one afternoon I almost starved to death, luckily I was saved by Mr. Chinobva
With fifty grams of Karibean Capenta and I ate it raw.
I was on the edge of life and death that noon, my life was soon and ready to vapour
Like dew of the morning in the rudiments of the sunshine.

I’m a broke guy, I have a single pair of steel-capped shoes in my house,
That is the one I wear at home, that is the one i wear at work,
And that is the one I wear when going to the chapel to worship with the congregation.

I’m a broke guy, I’m a broke guy and forever I’m a broke guy.

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