bidor napoleon

courtesy mob1900

The Bidor Napoleon
The infested papayas grow
On the plot of land
Ignoring the truth
When money is to be made

Lorries driving in
Unload the ripe papayas
Onto to the wet markets
Offering high price
Saying it is in demand

The chemical induced smell
It tastes awful the people hate it
Yet they don’t have a say
The MPs well sugar coated polishing it

The Bidor Napoleon
Smiling his way as he likes
He mouths words hardly people listen
They know he doesn’t mean a word
He will change direction
When he finds it jewels his mind

Then one day
The papaya trees withered and die
On his farm the Bidor Napoleon cries
He loses his wealth he can’t smile
In his mind he thinks of his wealth
Draining down the sandy pipes