Oracle of the povo

Her vision's scrubland
Of out-of-work does
Who yesterday a country won
And today poverty tasted

And some of the hills hurried their thirst
And others to arson and blasphemy
Waving down tourists and buses
Unleashing havoc no tongue can tell -
Her vision's Droughtstricken acres
Of lean harried squatters
And fat pompous armed overlords
Touching to torch the makeshift shelters
Heading to magistrate and village court
The most vulnerable and hungry of citizens
Her vision's Drought Relief graintrucks
Vanished into thin air between departure point
And expectant destination -
In despair she's found in beerhalls
And shebeens, by the roadside
And in brothels: selling the last
Bits and pieces of her soured vision