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the butchers abattoirs | da scribe

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,

We’re not buried, we walk like furs,

Our spirit flesh tossed by their sitting force;

With more “aye” than “nay” they whip us,

And there’s no way they’’ve clothed us.


They are the Leggy’s-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 Rehoboam’s youngies,

Each formulating abstract botanicals FGEP, U-SUN…

Though our kings, Bishops and all they’ve punned.


Our death wasn’t death with the “Judi-Sharing”;

The last ‘hope’ of the street’s plight hearing;

Last hope indeed, we found it’s 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)





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