He was found lying dead, in the fresh pool of blood,
Oozing from diverse punctures over his muscular body.
His eyes wide open, as if he must look to die
Hairs of his head freckled ***** in plasma dye.
His shoes a distance away, gorging in mud,
Redolent of his demise struggle with killing the mad.
His deep blue Brazilian made suit, waning in a whiff of freedom,
That came to sweep out of Kenya a cult of thralldom.
Several Packets of ****** spilled over and nearby,
Inspiring apt quizz; did lethal *** happen to pass by?
He had only given democratic legs and hands to his government,
Amid virtuous selflessness and people-centrism his prime indent.
A polity virtue which irked corrupt cacotopian powers that be,
To lethal turf of politics; imaginative vices dominant on human bay.
Packaged in the apex of local beauty of the nation,
Her stowaway; sorriest death of the law in the reign.
Leaving all of us agape in remorseful and  foolish quixoticity;
Dudes in the political caucus, who killed the minister?