They put the lynching out on YouTube,
The passports are all a joke,
And the promises we once believed
Have all gone up in smoke,
When we went to Polokwane
It was kind of amusing for once
When the College of Cardinals was exorcized
Till they all enthroned a dunce,
But in the end, with our money spent,
We had little left to show,
Then we found there was no direction home
From Jacob Zuma Row.
There was Advocate Pikoli
Rollerblading down the road,
Where he ran into Brett Kebble’s ghost
Incarnated as a toad.
“Wow, you look just like our President,”
Said Pikoli with a grin,
“Is there any way out of this place,
To absolve me of my sin?”
Brett only croaked and hopped away
For he knew he had to go,
To the celebrity party of the week
On Jacob Zuma Row.
In the squatter-camp the NPA
All sat begging by the tap,
But nobody would give them anything
For fear of catching clap,
Since they all had strange diseases
All supposedly from stress,
Which they shared with all the pundits
And the brethren of the press.
Till the sewage system drowned them all
With the power of its overflow,
As a sign of service delivery
For Jacob Zuma Row.
Was talking to himself
While Roman soldiers nailed his wrists
And ankles to the shelf.
“I was really, truly, President,
Of the independent camp,
I have evidence to prove the fact
Which is written on this stamp.”
Then everybody wondered why
Such an ordinary Joe
Should have been expelled forever
Out of Jacob Zuma Row.
Very civil Ramaphosa
And his friend the sexiest Wale
Were writing out their diaries
In Finnish-language Braille
In this time of credit crisis
They had worked out worst-case plans
For rounding up the unemployed
And redefining them as fans.
“You can give us all your cash,” they said,
“You can sit and watch it grow,
But don’t expect a penny back
From Jacob Zuma Row.”
So President Obama
In the absence of Michelle
Made love to Hillary Clinton,
Who groaned out “Peace is hell!”
All the world they knew had fallen down
And the homeland was on fire
And the oracle of Wall Street
Turned out to be a liar —
But their plans were clear and relevant:
“We should nuke ’em till they glow,
Then hold a sponsored genocide
On Jacob Zuma Row.”
I met the busted Wizard on the way
With his empty whisky glass,
Who said “I offered up my innocence
And got a boot right up the arse.
Then I proffered them the Renaissance
But they couldn’t pronounce it yet
So I had to plan my comeback
With the help of the Internet.
Now you ask me how I’m feeling,
To be honest, kind of low,
But at least I’ll never have to visit
Jacob Zuma Row.”
I privatised my eyeballs
Since there wasn’t much to see
I don’t open emails any more
I can get my lies for free.
All the tapes and contacts that we had
I don’t need them any more
Since I’ve found my new vocation
As a golden-hearted whore —
When my moral compass vaporised
It appeared a mortal blow,
Till I knew that I’d be moving up
To Jacob Zuma Row.