From a small coven
To a large overwhelming crowd
All clustered under the scorching oven
With our voices chorusing and loud
In the heat of a brooding chaos, behold! The guns and boots
Spouting warily with nictitating crocodile eyes, marking for some kills
As other swam of hoodlums rejoined with their loots
The breath of rightful deeds felt clogged like diseased mackerel gills
We must ward off this harsh rule in one massive anguished buzz
We must stand with one beating heart yet unresolved
With defiance or blunted zeal, not just a mere fuzz
Despite scattered dust mixing with the oozing off tossed canisters, we marched undissolved
We have tolerated enough to inspire many hunger wars
We are refusing to let our voices be contained in an enclosed stage
Be silenced, nor be put behind bars
Like some hunted wilds stocked away in a zoo cage
With such unbearable vultures' cry hovering around hyenas' feasting pile
With such rebellious act, yet justified with empty belly sense
"Where are the truckload of palliatives?", Someone alarmed with a stone projectile
In retaliation, a series of warning shots poked the skies, perhaps to flaunt firearms license
If not let to roar with animal rage while wagging its jungle tail
A hunger protest still; To what end, If not let to march towards the banquet gate of hell
If not let to bring down the profoundly deaf mushroom walls with a molotov cocktail
So sickening till dawn, yet we await the political butler to ring the broadcast bell