MAN OF THE SEASON a poem by Tola Kolade

Another sun would rise soon

poliWith a new song for my voice to chew

To cheer the overfed ears of our man in power

Another sun would soon rise

To announce the festival of lies

The time for mourning is almost gone

Let the festival begin

Your planted words are safe in my thinking pockets

Heated for several seasons, yet unburied

Deliberately kept for tomorrow’s harvest

YOUR HARVEST

Our man of the season

Seen once in many seasons like the locusts

Too modest to shake my crooked hands

But remember, with these same crooked fingers

I thumb printed my future

To push you into the government house

Unmindful of my crooked hands

I lifted you shoulder high.

Now you hide behind the tinted glass of your Mercedes

Too noble to caress the hands that gave you power

Perhaps you have forgotten

When a bush rat runs a bad race

The hunter will do a bad shooting.

Tomorrow, another sun will rise

Shining on my crooked thumb

As I take back from you that which is mine

 

 

 

 

 

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One thought on “MAN OF THE SEASON a poem by Tola Kolade

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