At the coldest of all times,
In the presence of harsh weather,
I as a grass,
As helpless as ever;
Too much cook spoils the broil,
That's why grazing brings so much boil,
To the forsaken grasses,
Who can deliver their spleen to nobody,
Favour! But to themselves!
The rain flogs the hell,
The sun scorches the heaven,
Out of the grasses, as a spell,
They can deliver their spleen uneven
Favour! But to themselves!
The brainless bulk of extractive meat,
Also move to them to cheat,
And graze until they are tired,
Mindless of whether the grasses are fired.
Do they not know that the **** of the fowl aches?
Or do they pretend that they do not.
Can they just eat their cakes?
And continue to keep their font?
Being a grass,
For full days of the hours,
I see our helplessness,
I feel the harsh treatment we have received,
And the many ways we have been deceived.
Erosion comes and sweeps us away!
Rain falls and saps our nutrients away!
Sun shines and shrinks our leaves unprunned!
The brainless bulk of extractive meat graze and
chew us away!
Our colours turn to milkless tea!
At whose mercy are we?
As a grass, I cry, I weep
But no help comes...
I'm short of words...
Yet no help comes...
Nigeria!
Where is the future of your people-the grasses!
As favour is to themselves!
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 10:51 AM UTC