Our Vagabonds In Power

They say old age begets wisdom
but really, it’s only a matter of perception.
With their honeyed words,
masterfully they dribble us.
Their official corruption,
to the high heavens stink.
Old, unfit and geriatric
still they wanna lead us;
where to? The grave I wonder

I might be only 21,
but I’ve gat memories to show.
Of their systematic disregard of us,
i need not linger upon.
(I mean) let’s be realistic
look at the statistics;
the bloody harvest of untimely deaths we know.
The dead buried so deep
even their ghosts,
know not where they lie.

Ruling with impunity,
our vagabonds in power
to the sounds of our silence,
they pay the utmost attention.
(But) Of our tears and rage,
buried deep they are
Within the folds of their agbada clothe.


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