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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Open the book of history chapter 19 Allow your shadow to roam on its surface, turn to verses twenty and wait. trace your finger forward, keep going; then Stop! Do you see that word corruption marked In red complexions? That was who they made us to be after the amalgamation of our thought through their thought to find home. You bottled up yourself and elected sickle cell patient in office to rule While the youths lazied at home. Last time was a woman and his wife, a man; and you cracked yourself up, Break every bones of your marrow biopsy complaining and singing how Womanly he was to lead you home. Now, what is the scores for Chelsea? open the constitution of your land, Flip towards section 111 of the book. Where was it written an eye for eye? Was there a mouth for jungle justices? I know is not your cup of tea to see a Brother beaten black and blue alone. He pleaded not guilty but they killed him, has he sinned more than the cocktail Politicians that stole money? I broke my silence and spelled pains and tears and sorrowful agony To those that killed themselves in themselves before the end comes. I agreed with my fears when I saw no PVC among my people but naijabet papers. I made my doubt fixed my broken legs to shave off angered tears. You need yourself cos here is chaos. When we cry to be free and clear, Our grandmothers collect cups of rice On the campaign ground for all of us. Don't you know to be poor is a way of life and to be rich is a way of death? When a fly passes by you rant and call Government who has sent them to you. I agreed with my fears that government will place that morsel into your mouth! 2019 is everybody's business to handle We can couple together those broken Laughter left on our humble fine faces. Dusting of every road in the state is everybody's business to talk about. Those colourful children in the street are everybody's business to care for. Not my cup of tea if you fail in your business of patriotic service to the land Now, close the book in your thought Let me tell you a broken tattered tale: Our ancestral politicians are the disguise herdsmen in the greener street of our home. Don't mention my name to any ear finding truth in this lie I just told. I am going home now, my mother seek my face for an errand I have to run. We are all reeked flag and coat of arms. Yours Poetically, ©John Chizoba Vincent
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