Not like the fetish to some deity,
The killers, so neat, nothing seems dirty,
Witty beards, yet, covered with frailty,
Weighty pockets make them dainty,
Not with gun, yet, killing us plenty,
And on our streets their posters smile saintly.
There at their abattoirs, they kill us,
Were not buried, we walk like furs,
Our spirit flesh tossed by their sitting force;
With more aye than nay they whip us,
And theres no way they’ve clothed us.
They are the Leggys-Nature;
Romancing us to death like an avenger suitor,
Selecting the right tools for our death,
Tools bind in leaves to us with mirth.
They have their brothers, the Execute-Thieves!
Who, the tools on us use by Rehoboams youngies,
Each formulating abstract botanicals FGEP, U-SUN
Though our kings, Bishops and all theyve punned.
Our death wasnt death with the Judi-Sharing;
The last hope of the streets plight hearing;
Last hope indeed, we found its our sentence,
Pulling from tools afore filed, we die like a mess
Forced to come again to die with less sound hearing.
Only when we die in our lots fondly,
With dreadful tags; fatal, ghastly, bloody
Burnt in infernos with no grace for our race;
They, supposed angels, increase our furnace,
Does the world know our face.
Akinsimoye Samuel Omoniyi (Da Scribe)