The Green Village Liturgy

Crocodile tears were shed at Gecko,

That night of leers and lies;

Stumbling drunks rolling in

From nearby Chameleon pies

And Whispering Olives.

This legendary road, pulsating

With uncontrolled vibes and no Inshallah—

Everything unholy and loud,

Making the green village

Hot, ugly, and uncomfortable.

From Wednesday’s beat to Sunday’s bass,

The clubs claim every inch of space;

A midweek thrum that never dies,

Ignoring the weary, the old, and the wise.

Then Saturday comes with a different crush—

A holy fever, a righteous rush,

Clogging the gates, the curbs, the street,

With parking sins and hurried feet.

The Saturday saints sing off-key;

This Friday night, they’re practicing.

Then Sunday arrives to break the sun,

With speakers high till the service is done.

The clubs and the churches—

A twin-headed menace,

Too loud for a residential area,

Too crass in their inconsiderations

Of us who call this home and

Are neither saints nor sinners.