Wails of sirens as the town crier’s scream,
As black skinned vehicles kiss to the road’s route,
Caps sing as the head ties dance to their tunes,
Men of the press, people of the papers,
For a sight of a moment’s speech they await,
An arrival of dark heart’d ambassadors,
Ambassadors of cries and pains, for poverty they stand,
Brothers of squalors, sisters of squander,
Even the earth sings us songs of grief,
The winds whistle us notes of disdain,
As they swing their money laundering ‘’Agbadas’’.


We have a parliament… oh, yes!! We do,
A mere assembly of mockery and deceit,
For our words we speak of no rhyme, they deceive us,
We, ourselves? They deceive us with no order,
To the arids we are sent to struggle,
While, our money they get with pleasure in due leisure,
‘’Ones’’ upon ‘’Twos’’, ‘’Zeros’’ upon ‘’Zeros’’,
They assume that they paid all,
But, all we see is yet to all nations’ peril.

Our seeds are home done as well prepared rice,
To the booking grounds they take to,
Yet, a story to no avail,
A story to our sore hearts; a story of unheard hassle,
That of streets unpaved and dwellings of the dark forests,
Who are we to speak? Such to know,
Who are we cry? Cry out to them, our painful truths,
Pails of tears we have filled, filled to limits unreached,
Tears we still await to give,
Tears of brothers lost, mournfulness of sisters gone,
Then, who are we not to sing our songs?
Songs of soreful pains…. Oh! The soreful ones.