Obi Yindal

Obi Yindal Poems

The Best Poem Of Obi Yindal

A Word On Ancient Pagan Greece

Your gods are many
Yes, like Egypt
And many others with plenty
But you lead the way
Through the washing of brains
In modern universities.

You are king
You’re no second among texts
Since you lead
While you wash and rake
Our brains
Through Plato and Aristotle
And more
With myths of Iliad and Odyssey.

You’re enchanting!
And have led, indeed led
Great men like Shakespeare
And more still more of Europe
To bow
Along with the world and America,
Giving you praises;

For you were flourishing
When truth was born in a stable.
Truth came naked
And caused wondering eyes
Producing in you great consternation
As you shook within you boots.
With truth came the changing
Of time and winds of rebirth
Resulting in you great losts
And renovations.
But you’ve managed
To abandon truth
To the shelf by offering
Your robes as a cover for truth’s
Glorious nakedness.

We should have seen this coming
When you gave Socrates hemlock
Begging him to keep silent
From his meddling.

You’re not alone;
Pagan Rome, your partner in the robberies
And in the eating of human souls
Have greatly aided.
But you, concerning culture
And reason, still lead the way
In the heart of staggering universities
With drunken scholastics
Under your spell
Through your exported wines.

Your hypnosis
Breeds slaves and automatons
Captivated by your miasma of filth
Intertwine with gold jewels
Of great price
While bathing in your dung
Of unbearable poison,
Endorsed with your signature
And that of Azazel.

Your scent is large.
Reaching to the nose of God
Is your Babylonish booze
So much so that painted-brains
Sleep-walk to the very precipice
Of hell’s cliff while carrying your Classics
In their cap and gowns
Going to their fall, acclaiming
Your gods
And spitting on the face of naked truth;
Looking at truth with skeptic scorn
As they place a purple robe
And a thorny crown
Above the head of Truth
Presenting truth a stick for a scepter
And laughing fiendishly
Shouting hail! hail! hail!

The hands of ancient Rome
Though washed, are greatly stained
With blood from truth.
Your crime is no less great
While you and many turn the finger
On every semite
And place a halo on every You.
But you fail to see
Your imprint on hearts
Infatuated by your glamour,
Beauty,
And bottles of philosophical
Confusions.

Soon and very soon
Truth will tear off those robes
And shine gloriously NAKED
Even more stunning than before.
And many who bought your merchandize
Will abandon you
And all your equals and superiors
Forever.

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