Like a C-rated movie
the curtain call of paramedic entourage
in heavenly brocade
the silky sun stood still, watching over us
like lambs of no mothers.
The gods, being influenced by the syndrome of deltas,
are chopping the soul of our man away
to partake in the charade of the national cake.
Just as the country was dying of the thirst of the sun
he deplaned, therapy of Europe
had formed freckles all over his face.
His handlers coordinated his gait
Avoiding a trance, and scaling through the hordes
of the river of people, swerving
To capsize his Excellency into one-minute international talk
And guess what, in the toll unawares and uncertainties
He retorts: “Oh, fuck this!” Umbrageous.
Cataclysm took the air: some dissenting felt bitten
He was puppeteered into the waiting Mercedes
Noise of sirens stole all silences
and bewilderments of all miracles away
And the goodness of the offshore god
was briefly radioed, flicking past every ear
Written by: Olajide Michael
Edited by: Kukogho Iruesiri Samson
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