Flog us hard
We might break
Kill us now
We might rise!
A word
A ward
Give us rhythm
Give us rhymes
Let us smile
To your tales of woes
To the stories of hungry birds
One forty five!
Is that all?
Not much a bargain.
Trails of the dead widows
Happiness of the lonely slaves;
Let march with loud voices
Before Olu's palace
Let zip our hair with trousers
The pain beneath are freedom.
As our feet dwindle on hot hill
Our wounds suffers in tetanus hoard.
Onward we drive with caravan of Claudius.
The warrior we beckoned, flames us
With the coldness of the burning furnace.
Toast our thought, what more can we sought?

Suffering and Smiling.

Smiling like a mother that watches her mad son go naked.
Suffering as the blue pen that pushes itself to write zeroes.
Life's a hard line that kowtow to no mean order
Order by the leaders in other to order pains on others.
Let dance at this party of our dying crying
Let cry at this party of our graduating sons.
Let wish our chi a blasting picnic in hell.
If we sob to this sobber from the day order
Our cries we merely rest on barren trees.
If our tears flood this land to desert.
Our petite grains may suffer logs of erosion.
Wash your face with clean sands and bath.
And sing to the sufferings with smiling face
Cos our land need not the buffs of our tears.
And our gods ask not for the blood of our lads.
Only a poem of sorrow can cure our ills.

© 2016, OTÁ Brainbox, Giftedpens.com.

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