Ode of Famine

A prosy prose for deity to mourn, As the hunger stricken wobbles the ground. Oh! the old retinues that feed besides our ribs. Come again with their unbearable tax payers, While the labourers' stomach rumble! The ignorant chieftains stare from above, While the Kwashiorkor kids parade the streets! Farmers clank their basket and hoe, For nothing to bring homewards when the farms never yield. As the hard labour tastes no fruit, Wife and daughter, are forever famished. The sailor that despoil us, Snatch the bouquet of our feast. As we wallow in our hollow labour? Leaving us despondent at the edge of the farm, Oh! We are made for you to drain, When the basket of yam fully stored in there yard. The old retinues release starvation from its dungeon, As hunger flay around street, whipping!. The rise of commodities in the Bazar, A loaf is bought at high price. And the grain is untouchable! This is a prosy prose for deity to mourn, How housewives turn to modern beggars, While the toddlers sleep with void bellies and empty jars!