23/03/2026
"Tears of Bob”
In the town of Kumbo, on dusty roads,
Walked a man everyone knew.
They called him Bob, simple and quiet,
A face both old and true.
His mind was not like other men’s,
He lived in his own way,
Writing on papers no one read,
Talking to himself all day.
He carried a “gun” made out of trash,
Just playing, not to harm,
While real guns echoed through the land,
Bringing fear and alarm.
The people knew him, young and old,
“He is harmless,” they would say,
“He has been here for many years,
He troubles no one, let him stay.”
Even the soldiers had seen him pass,
So many times before,
A quiet man, a broken soul,
Not someone to fight a war.
But one dark day, it all went wrong,
The sun stood still in shame,
The military came with anger,
And nothing stayed the same.
They beat him down, he could not fight,
He did not understand,
Then shot him close, without mercy,
A gun held in their hand.
No crime he did, no threat he made,
Just a man the world ignored,
Yet in that moment, cruel and cold,
His simple life was torn.
Kumbo cried, the people mourned,
“How could this be done?”
A helpless man, already lost,
Now gone by a soldier’s gun.
Was he not human? Did he not feel?
Did he not deserve to live?
Even the weakest among us all
Have a life the world should give.
Now Bob is gone, the streets feel strange,
No more his daily walk,
No more his papers, no more his voice,
No more his quiet talk.
Remember Bob, not just his pain,
But the life he lived each day,
For even the least among us all
Should never die this way.
