What a historic day it is, that the birth of Motherland we celebrate,
She beautifies herself with Independence and prides in freedom;
Like a berry, Her seeds are nurtured and groomed to pomegranate,
Its the birthday of Nigeria, a tectonic day of liberation from Edom.

A day to celebrate Her sweet Autonomy and Ultimate Supremacy,
An October 1st that marks an Independent and historic liberation;
She prides herself in political Authority, Power and Predominancy,
Its the born day of Motherland, a day of a feast worthy celebration.

Let's all celebrate the birth of Nigeria, for Her age's a befitting feast,
We must unite together as One Nation built on our Elite's landmark;
This day calls for a jubilation to a lasting freedom and a vital feast,
Motherland glows with honour and pride, for her birth's a hallmark.

She fought like an Eagle with great might and valor, for the liberty
Of Her future generation, and Hero's blood a fountain of freedom,
Today we laud a Nigeria that birthed the Independence and stability
Of a Sovereign Nation, that feeds no more on the putrid of Edom.

Today marks the 56th born day of Nigeria, and still a Sovran Nation,
It calls for a celebration, a befitting feast and a historic merriment;
An October 1st that marks an Independent and historic liberation,
Its Nigeria's Independence, a day to celebrate a sweet merriment.

©Vabec.

Honour to thee, thou goddess of succulent scrumptious beauty,
Before thee, I bow to worship thy spotless enticing purity;
At the aroma of thy fragrance, I breathe an immense sagacity,
My Arabian goddess, thy prowess I honor with my whole creativity.

Thy beauty have ne'er been seen on the face of any woman
Neither the origin of thy irresistible smiles traced to any human,
The radiance of thy smiles outshines the shining pride of the sun;
Thy refin'd personality a rare gem causes every imagination to run.

A fountain of beauty upon whose elegance the sun refuses to shine,
There canne'er be found any symbol of priceless beauty aside thee;
Of a truth, thou art a rare treasure for whose heart I'll go extra mile;
My Arabian goddess, for thy sake I'll forsake the world to be with thee.

Thy beauty is second to none for thou art more beautiful than the universe,
I'll treasure thee until the ocean dries up, for with thee I'll grow old;
My Arabian goddess, for thy smiles I'll cause time to make a reverse,
Until my dying breathe, I'll treasure thy person, till the ocean folds.

Thou art so precious a treasure, whose beauty glows with honour and pride,
An epitome of beauty, whose beauty is without comparison a rare Berry,
Thy rhythmic voice a sonorous lyric makes me glued to thy side
For thou art sweeter than honey and more succulent than berry.

My Arabian goddess, until the end of time, I'll forever love you best,
I'll love thee, till the river jumps over the mountains, with thee I'll boast my Pride;
Ne'er will I stop loving thee, for I'll be sure to love thee to thy taste,
Of a truth, thy beauty glitters more than gold, with thee I'll make my Bride.

©Vabec

On this soil where grows struggle, I hawk my sweat,
Investing my sufferings on the stench of wretchedness;
Can these green leaves bring me beacons of wealth?
I'd build my hope on the ants and termites from this train,
Its train track attracts multitude of bees with honey;
Aside this soil full of thorns, I've no other place to hawk my sweat.

Is there any hope for hope, when I am stripped of my gain by tax locusts?
All my hope is invested in the honey of bees who buy my sweat,
I fear not the tempting sun, for her smiles has become my hope;
But how can I survive the scorching economy, when I barely earn?
Even the spot on which I tread my sweat, is become an empty sea,
Aside this spot where the rain molests me, I've no hope of survival.

Beside this rusty train, where hunger steals the day, I hawk my sweat,
If I don't pressure my struggles, how can I survive the rainy days?
The sun feasts on me, cause I made her the hope of my gain,
No matter how hard I am molested, I'll never give up on my hope;
Though I hawk my sweat for living, I'll never forget my dreams,
Aside this raggy soil, where suffering is bred, I've no hope of survival.

Can I really continue hoping on hope, for not even my profit is fair,
The bees who bred honey on my sweat are now richly penniless;
Is there still hope left, as I tirelessly tread my hawking sweat?
The burden of life rests on my shoulders, for I must struggle to live,
Despite all my investment in suffering, I still can't save a penny;
Aside this soil, where I hawk my cheap sweat, I've no hope of living.

On this hardened soil where hardship is sweet, I hawk my sweat,
If I invest in my thoughts of trashing my retired cheap items,
How then will I survive the night when hungers knocks at my door?
Though I'm hawking my sweat, but I can't even feed my mouth,
Despite all my investment in suffering, I still can barely survive,
Is there still hope for me, as I solely depend on hawking my sweat?

What guile is this, that the Inventor of Change is cruel,
He invests not his ears on the sweat of the poor and helpless;
Like a tyrant, he feeds sweet tears to ants for a gruel,
Is he not guilty of false hope of Change to the hopeless?

How is it that he's different from his own self
In that he considers not the interest of the termites,
And being voted in by ants, is now a Mighty elf;
Is he not deceptive in his honest dealings with termites?

We must change the CHANGE, for cunning is his agenda,
Henceforth, must we not be enslaved in his guileful net
In that he entrapped the poor ants to enrich his blender,
Out of his duplicity, must we by all means be fret.

Folly it was, that he promised us as Change
To covet beacons of wealth, from the hopeless ants,
Is he not guilty of prophesying false prophesies of Change?
We must Change the CHANGE for the safety of the helpless ants.

He pledged Change, but chained the CHANGE, and left us hopeless,
Is he not guilty of duplicity, and sabotage of the nation's economy?
None of his agenda was in the interest of the poor and helpless;
We must Change the CHANGE, for CHANGE threatens the economy.

To whom do I liken thee, oh god of gods: William Shakespeare,
Art thou not an immortal god or an incarnate of a spirit being?
Howbeit thy sepulcher, is but an idol, kept sacr'd by all human?
Of a truth, thy wisdom is greater than the wisdom of gods.

Whereupon thy plaque of wisdom, do I invest my foolishness?
I'll treasure thee until the ocean is fold'd and hung up to dry:
Thou art a monument without a tomb, yet art fore'er alive in history,
If I can but fit into thy beard, only then will I be fit to wed myself.

Shakespeare, art thou a supernatural god or an immortal creature?
Howbeit thy enchanting quill doth live, in spite of death, and cannot die?
Thy historic writings I'll idolize, for to thy muse, I am confess'd,
To whom do I liken thee, thou wittiest of all Socrates, if not but a god.

To thy legacies I am confess'd, for thy pen is worth more than gold,
Thou art the enigma of all times, none can exist thus like thee:
The Gigantic Ink that paint'd the pages of history with a historic Art;
Sage, thou art a historic page whose duplicate canne'er be produc'd.

Beneath thy tomb lies an Art, which neither man nor nature can ever forget,
Thou was not for an age, but all time, for nature herself boast'd of thee;
Mellifluous Shakespeare, thy historic impacts makes the silent grave arous'd,
Thou the wittiest sage of all times, whose name doth deck history.

To whom do I liken thee, thou Sweet Swan of Avon, William Shakespeare,
Thou art the Idol of all sages who flights upon the river of Thames,
Shakespeare, thou art the wittiest of all Socrates, whose muse cannot be tam'd,
Of a truth, thou art a historic sage whose name history canne'er forget.

Counting the naked pregnant seas that I've crossed,
I see the birth of my absence being felt as a wind; 
Thoughts of existing like the sun ****** my heart, 
When I be gone, let me become an Icon of reckoning.

Upon the absence of my existence, let me become the air 
Of all that breathes and lives in the endless ocean of life, 
Build me a mountain upon which fruitful rivers shall flow;
When I be gone, let not the sweet memories of me run dry.

Standing on the hills of many waters that I've treaded, 
I perceive an incomplete history without the memories of me; 
Thoughts of the earth never having enough of me ticks,
When I be gone, let me be the Guardian of the earth.

On the parting presence of my running breath, 
Let my exploits be the reason to embrace living; 
Engrave my impacts on the sweat of the helpless, 
When I be gone, let me become the Hope of the hopeless.

If peradventure the breath of my existence cease to breathe 
And my reason for living be not lived to her expected taste, 
Let the future generation live to live the shadow of my life;
When I be gone, plant my name as the historic seed of history.

Thou Messiah preaching Change, art thou true to thy words? 
Fighting bribery and corruption yet with cheap sentiments, 
Judgeth thou not thy biased - honest actions to be corrupt? 
Thou that prophesied an economy of sweet change,
How is it that thou considereth not the masses interest? 
Inventor of Change, thy prophesied words art without works; 
Even thy supporters yearn in regret for voting thee in.
Is this the change that thou for long prophesied? 
I yawn tears for the future of Nigeria and her unborn child. 
Thou art trusted to be the man after the peoples heart
And loved by all cause of thy prophesies of change,
But how be it that thou art different from thine own self?

Savior of the people, why art thou adamant to the peoples cry? 
Thy poisonous deeds have caused much great pain and suffering, 
Why not invest thy ears on the sweat of the poor and helpless?
Did ye deceive the ants and termites that voted thee in to save them? 
Remember thou thy words and promises made before being elected. 
Thou surrounds thyself with chameleons occupying seats of filtered ambitions,
Woe betide thee for thy conscience have refused to judge thee. 
Art thou not guilty of prophesying false prophesies of change? 
Thou that killeth the rosy wealth of the nation's pride,
Why doth thou not consider the sufferings of the poor ants? 
I mourn for the bitter death of the nation's sweet economy.
Savior of the people, why art thou so heartless a Messiah?

Howbeit in thy regime, hunger and suffering is the income of ants?
The marketplace has become an ocean of expensive - cheap items,
Cost of petrol waxing hot and higher amidst the harsh economy; 
Savior was thy coming to destroy or redeem the helpless ants?
Thou promised hope to educated ants and graduated termites, 
Yet not an iota of thy prophesied promises or words art come to pass; 
Chancellor of Change, judge it if thou art true to thine own self.
Thou that prophesied promises, howbeit thy words art not fulfilled?
Mind thee the poor ants and termites voted thee in to save them,
Messiah did ye deceive the ants with thy deceptive - genuine lies?
Savior thy heresies has become a poisonous venom to the poor,
Wilt thou not resign seeing thou be not true to thine own words?