Bagasse!

It's what's left, it could be
a swear word,
it could mean
"trash"
but it's what's left
after the juice has been pressed
out of the cane throughout
the tedious humid day
plodding on with the hypnotic turning
of the incessant press
supervised by the severe
Maestro de Azucar
with a sword buckled to his belt
who deems white sugar cake
to be white enough for Spain,
who decides what yellow
sugar cake is for the rum
and which yellow cake
is for the slaves.
It is he who walks
about the grumbling
rollers of the press
alert for slaves getting
fingers caught and
when that happens,
the sword flashes and
shwaaaaaaappp !
Off with the hand !
BAGASSE !
Sometimes you feel like
BAGASSE !
You get your motor goin'
in the mornin'
with a breakfast of champions,
white sugar in the coffee,
chilli on the breakfast hot dog,
oh, make it two
in the hubbub of the convenience store,
budda bing ! budda boom !
Grab a copy of USA TODAY,
shwaaaaaaaappp !
BAGASSE !
Will you smile today? Eat a salad?
Say, "Excuse me?" Jog?
It's what's left.




Poetry by Peter J. Kautsky
Read 627 times
Written on 2007-03-10 at 20:45

dott Save as a bookmark (requires login)
dott Write a comment (requires login)
dott Send as email (requires login)
dott Print text