By Kingsley Godstime
Four corners the room I sat,
Musing, how life had threatened me,
I never had a source of joy,
Not even a wife and my own boy.
My life came crashing,
Like a calabash upon an old hill.
Stony was the path which I ascend,
to a road should I say street descending,
life had dealt treacherously with me,
I have danced to its cunning strings.
I must confess, I’m fed up,
no destined destination I walk,
Just have to lug my thought,
like a poor homeless slug.
Nobody cares about nobody,
everyone occupied with their own thoughts,
hunger strangling me each morning,
have I even tasted salt?
Well, who do I blame?
The government or her allies?
A Country driving me insane,
I better run to Paris,
before I go sanely insane.