Read Time:53 Second
I dare not say of incandescent pen
lest I sink in weariness, then to earth
Candles burnt into the hoof of fate’s den
A plebe’s fame, the trophy for daunt’d nights
Where words do spring its earliest bliss in prime
No sloe of fame made cosy the daunting nights
Nor the grimes of shame wiped away by time
Oh! What chants of woes shall my offsprings vaunt
As the vet’rags’ feat couldn’t spare a sirloin
But raw images on slates for them to grunt
And when ten bowls of skills would weigh a coin
I shall return with prime of youth-vigour
If the gauge of wealth not my sweat devour
Written by: Dan Dediver
Edited by: Kukogho Iruesiri Samson
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