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Brood
Over solemn matters men brood.
Whoever does not clearly crude;
One is anxious to win a feud:
The face of Jude facing The Rude
And I say: it’s the right mood;
The countenance of The Shrewd,
For when it is shrewd follows food.
Over the life-changing I brood
As I wish to hear The Good;
Not like leaves shake where I’ve stood
Or, soonest, start mouthing The Rude
And sorrow drowning in The Brewed.
Copyright ©
Chinedum Ekwobi
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