Written by: kelechi Emeaba

Silvan's and the night foozles, 
Amidst sting plenty oodles ,
Singeing some logs,Wanton to 
mawup throes, 
Heavy heartening, Without a 
day, Sighing  for the miracle, If 
could set their foots off these 
marshy pinnacle, Silvans! much 
less tastes  wrung a romps, 
came off could in cot  have them 
fops, If not reprobation, Much 
while they were alive, Hereafter 
would even as,Resat and crowed 
over some tides, Which resort  
mankinds, Yea right in its mind, 
And ounce of time, With a close 
sift , The old furry'd 
unbecomingly , For yet to come 
after in extant looking like clone 
of its real self, A percentile prod 
to plot, Left some fog onto their 
crown slur, Whose thoughts in 
broad worn its outer looks,In 
these our day-about, Better off 
baled in a chafe, Somebody's 
marimba, Refusing to apt, 
Would we mind a therapical 
whine, Of course not;  the 
contrails after cedes a 
wonk,When it muses loomed 
like mooch, A 
rout racing plodded on a trifling 
earthly desks, with a bunny 
darting deftness, Doleful 
mugwumps, looking  very 
solemn,Misnomer what if has 
known by, And vents it inside 
owns spleen, Thought our bare 
soles are be-shrewd, only to 
rend thine whorled.