Read Time:1 Minute, 35 Second
- For Iyesi Ota. Circa 2017. In this cauldron of a teeming city, We have seen infantile masquerades Who ought to prance home in scholastic shoes Walk, barefooted, the muddy path bereft of coated tar (lest I forget, schools here are rest rooms for goons) And we've heard of men hiding in the nocturnal cloak Of ominous howling sounds to prey on innocent flesh In this cauldron, the future of young souls Running into manhood are mortgaged For futility in a bet 9ja shop How to be a record breaker is becoming lord of the bar Or a smoke master, hell boy, right from age 12 In this cauldron, poverty litters the land With many a cluster of churches And gossips are the lyrics of the choir It's alien to chant a Melody of revolution In this cauldron, Ramadan is a period When motels and bars turn a grave yard Electricity has long been on exile here The dark supremacy of witches is ever Fighting the sick transformer! For the weapons of warfare Are not by spanners, hand gloves And what have you, Mr. elect-elect? You don't want to be next on their list Like a relegated craftsman on a disabled bed Whose house mother once pointed me The agile one once worked on rooftops Today knows him a bed-wetter! His limbs are long years dinner for the aged mothers They who carve baldness on vulture's skull. You need to feel the boiling retardations here, To know why a poet screams, This city shan't be my cauldron!