PHIL:

He´s the dark swarthy stealthy panther of the wild poetry world,

Chipping away at words like rocks, & like diamonds released, hurled,

Inviting folk like us to dream, absorb, wallow in, to relish and enjoy,

Just ask his little Kiguli army, every fortunate girl and lucky boy.

He is the printer and painter of all that is inked, scribbled and scribed,

Leaving us saturated satisfied and sated, with his poetry drunkenly imbibed,

He is of the elusive tribe of the poet so wonderful and so completely rare,

Men may wax and men may wane, but with Phil nobody deems to compare.

On Saturday nights he lets down his hair; he´s the ebony prince of Kampala city,

Where the beers are cold, the music is hot, and the girls are so terribly pretty,

Out he goes, leonine and so slinkingly sassy at the nights on primitive prowl,

And this feline Phil with his eloquent tongue, has the gift to make the ladies growl.

He is the smiling man with many elegant facets and a myriad of handsome faces,

He leads his friends, his pupils and all who know him into a dance of many paces,

Phil is our daily smile, our dose of African sunshine and our necessary daily pill,

He´s our mentor, our laughter; our far-away cyber friend, he´s our dearest pal Phil.