Dead Fishes Which Don't Swim: Francis Ocran

This thought that spins my head
I cannot lie to sleep
Before the cook I laid bear
My fleet of grievances
Wondering why she serves me soup
Of dead fishes which don't swim
Aren't my toil hard enough
To feed me living fishes?



She kept mute to my plea
And pay no heed
May be I'm mad, she thinks
My cry she considers nonsense
But she should know sense
That serving dead fishes which don't swim?
Is nothing but silver cloud
Which pours scorn.

I can never be mute
Until this habit she quits
And if you think I'm mad
Then you are the cook
Who serves me dead fishes
Which don't swim.