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Our lord on the gold seat, with his sceptre,
High up the rock; blessed among rocks,
In the shadows of Aso the brave,
Upon the land of yams, once of the Bwari’s.
Our lord is a don; sun of a gun,
Swept our love and prints with spines of fronds
Into a bottle of 'change'; a fiction that
Our gunned old men wrote with wax, in the sun.
Our lord is not heartless, but
A withered heart of gold's as good as none,
Our lord's skin has life and breathes, but
What good is cuticle that is numb?
Our lord has ears, and he hears
Whispers of the bourgeoisie in his right, and
Wailings of the abject masses in his left;
Whose stapes is Apollyon.
Our lord can speak; but to few directly,
The francophones; Tu Parles francais?
To the anglophones, he's translated
By ‘Layi Moo-hammed, heralds of verisimilitude.
This poem is a hard hammer on a hard truth that nailed it home