A restriction of flow from the fountain
Where there is a downpour of rain
And yet, there isn’t any fain
There is a lifestyle in our kingdom
Where our sun sheds cold breeze,
And our daughters commit whoredom
Where the sound of the night is low
Because the keeper of the house is mellow
Dreams are then traded for money
And birthrights for drops of honey
In our kingdom, aves don’t mimic mammals
If not, they’ll call their asses mama
There’s lot of raw gold
But yet no potters to mould
We hear the agony of the dead
Yet still speaking are beings without heads
Our basket gathers much water
But our pots leak, fall and shatter
There is no difference between who we are
And who we used to be
Or rather, who we were
And who the gods are making us
Our king is full of frivolities,
And our queen, unable to twist her tongue
Our chiefs are sick in the mouth
And our understanding of the paper is in a baseless halt
Warriors from other kingdoms fight our battle
And our fighters freely surrender their mantle
Same in our kingdom boasts surplus of the gory
And souls vanish to uncertain glory
Our buckets are empty – daily
There are whispers of need
Our kingdom is of thirty and six villages
Of which none is ready for final marriages
Who then will save our kingdom?
Who dare comes to the rescue of our domain?
Written by: Ayomide Festus
Edited by: Kukogho Iruesiri Samson
