Our leaders with Golden sapphire
Smelling nice with stolen myrrh
Always busy on track - tours, on tractors
They plow us.
Damaging our pretty petals
They kill our flowers
They are always flying,
we strain to get a quick look
And end up with whiplash,
the pain is what the chief cooked
These thieves crooks
Should be called flatworms
Their stride to power was a big fluke.
They brag with stale promises
With big agbada..... Yet our clothes are moth-eaten
Should I pretend to see not?
The lies underneath?
They lie on the heath
To plant and to till, we wait still
To see the seed they will bring
And die being the seed, that was buried underneath.
