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Don't think I don't love you grandfather, when I steal the food that you're chewing from your mouth.
I cherish the stories you told how the God brought us down on a rope. I pray nightly under the roof you built over my head that one day the water will return.
Return the crops the fruits your daughter put in my mouth when there was still a time when people did that. Don't take it seriously when I laugh as you fall, unable to stand from starvation of food and emotion.
The lord lords in mysterious mighty ways, and he must like fruit a whole heaven of a lot seeing it's not bursting out of the vines that die in our sand.
Father of my father, drought of my drought, wish me well for these are bleak seasons and survival is uncertain. Laugh with me when your nieces fall down hills, weakened by thirst; things will get better.
Things will get better and I will kidnap my bride to be as is tradition, when she sneaks out at night for her final defecation as a single lady, and soon, I'll be passing out tobacco when comes the child whose child will steal the food from my mouth.