Whozit?
At every knock they panic
“Who’s it?” be their eternal cry
They scurry here
And flurry there
To hide the stock
Of their filthy gains
Under the bed, inside the roof
Away–away, from piercing eyes.
Achans of our time
Their “Come in”
Takes long in coming
“Whozit? Whozit?
Remains their incessant bleat
For wealth gathered in great untruth
Weighs down the bearer’s soul!
Copyright © Edward Babatunde | Year Posted 2008
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