For their days are numbered still
Woe to he weeds on fields!
For they daily strive with planted seeds
Their end will be without glamour
For theirs s a life without glamour
They hypocritically preach the “change” sermon
But they are the ardent “corruption” demons
Their hands are swift to raise placards
Not an iota of care for the poor nor the sad
They wore garments and raiment of white
Their inner selves is a stinking, stench-filled sight
Sprouting everywhere, making a waste
Of lands fertile to plant maize or hay
Woe! I say to the weeds that believe still
That the planted seeds will be sacrificed in the field
When hewn and dried, these weeds
Will be offered as a burnt offering
Their ashes will not be scattered on rivers
But trodden on by wife and kids of the farmer
There will be no memorial for their existence
For theirs is a life of recalcitrant indulgence
Woe to the weeds on fields!
For their days are numbered still!
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