Fame Grows And Dies Poem by Timothy Faboade

How short does Fame live?
How ephemeral can glory be?
Unlike bees they lack a hive
To dwell for all to have and see.

Muse! Imagine a glorious man
Celebrated and honoured among
The neighbours and his clan
For he was so valiant and strong.

Many wars he had mainly fought,
Swords, guns, arrows and bows,
In his domain couldn't be sought,
None of his type can be found now.

He was not only brave, but so kind,
Despite the fact that he was rich
As an Emperor with no bind,
Many he fed with bread and fish.

Unto his name he booked feats
And for his source many wins
And for foes trembling feet
And enormous wealth for his kins

He dined and merried with crowns
He himself was considered Royal
And forever he swore to be loyal
Unto his house and the town.

With one oar he paddled his home
More diplomatic than all of Rome,
With honour he treated his slaves
But among them he hated the naives.

From East to West, North to South
His name and lineage freely fly
And his feats filled every mouth
And as Abel's sacrifice occupied Sky.

After several decades of the Field,
He determined to rest and retire
And quench the guns', bows' fire,
In his brown roof he hanged the shield.

Muse! On a white horse he rode
And as Jesus, he was saluted
With bronze, silver and raw gold
None of these was ever diluted.

Muse, what can outshine these glories
And the amuse in the aged stories,
Many a lady wished him her husband
For they too desired Fame on the land

Still agile and able, he embraced hunting
Which had been his childhood game
Which he loved to play with stunning,
Through this, he amassed more fame.

One day, when all Natures had
Up waken for the beautiful day,
He called his beaded hunting clad,
For the game of Fame of May.

With him were ten able hands,
That carried his arrows and bows
They all left after the first crows
To tour for leisure the wild lands.

There was a thunderous, cheer
When his spear caught a deer
Struggling in the thick wide web,
Then they knew it would be well.

The unlucky beast the hands shared,
Towards the North they ploded,
Tired, though happy, they fared
Then, the muse musely unfolded.

Resting was a boisterous jungle
Being, trumpeting with his tusks,
That that day was a brawl and bungle
And like chameleon caught with tusks.

His breath flung the heaviest men,
Suspecting they came for what's meant
For him and his wide, large domain,
So, he stood to attack them and their main.

His four pounded the calm ground,
Furiously burning he swiftly rose
Moving towards where they're bound,
Hell-bent to fight with his metal nose.

Others, terrified, took to their heels
From afar, their wide mouths ajar
They watched the war with zeals,
Predicting who'd take the star.

Behind leaves, dwarfs and trees
They laughed when the men fell
And at the Lord, a terror of the seas,
who never ceased to trumpet, yell.

'Where is our valiant, wise Lord',
Wearily, asked a nervous ward
Helplessly seeing the Titan coming
Towards the men, so, so funny.

Behold the fearless, fairest mortar
Swearing to ground the grounding mortal
That was ten feet away the ten
Beneath a big calm tree and its tent.

Where two Elephants, they say, fight,
The innocent grasses bear the burden,
Two Elephants were at a very sight,
The tussle must be graciously golden.

'Oh you ugly, senseless beast!
Today my good people and I
Will on your flesh have a feast
Unto the gods offer your eyes.

'You've got your days end today
Let all the forest and jungle shake,
Let them all hear what I say,
Let all the sleeping ones now wake.'

The two angry Lords' fiery faces
Met, the jungle's bragged the more,
The men's recounting hunting law
He stored in his head in many phases.

The two warriors bravely fought,
All including the men stood still
This, Muse, never could be bought
Or could a poet tell all's there ill.

Wounded, the man-Lord in pains
Groaned, moaned, panged and bled,
All over his clad were red stains
Oh! What unto this him blindly led!

The beast-Lord in triumph boasted
The Trumpeter's anger the more boiled,
A weakling, he thought, he hosted:
The weakling's blood to be soiled.

Like thunder it struck his mind
That with him was a god-given cap
Lying where he couldn't then find,
But the priceless was on land's lap.

The Goliath was ready for the last hit
Tightly he held his heinous fist
The throat he longed to slit
Ah! Muse! How can I get this mist?

The ailing men on the myriad dirt,
Cried for they thought slaying Death
With his stunning, dolorous mirth
Has come with no seen sweat.

The all-men-loved, dying Being
Being adored even by some gods,
For himself some dirge sang,
He hoped his soul would lose abroad.

The gods, like Zeus for the Greeks,
On their golden, beaded throne,
On the mythical cap light shone,
The cap was, indeed, a sleek.

They rose to save their lovely son,
Hence, commanded the scared sun
To aid the godlike, noblest soul
Which the Great Heaven ready to know.

Later, he found the cotton gem
And this pleased all of them
With the frightened forest friends
For near was the Fiend's end.

He held it calmly and very weakly,
Drew closer to the Giant's long beak,
Slapped the tusk with the treasure
Ah! He fell by the little feeble pressure.

Muse! The sky's face covered by dust,
Trembling was the strongest earth crust,
Behold the pudgy fleshy Mount
Oh! He lost in the man-beast bout.

Upon all other creatures, total power
I give you to be like the Babel Tower
Before their sights and poor hearts
You shall rule them and the earth.

For it's writ, man shall dominate animals
Though the domination can be minimal,
Or absolute, it's the Almighty's wish
That their fleshes be man's own dish.

The news ran faster home, spread
Like a harmattan fire in the wild,
Nothing of such had been ever read.
An hour later, the world was mild.

Cymbals, drums, flutes, and songs
Accompanied the flooding people,
Who eulogized the man, so strong
Shoulders high he's carried by the people.

Hundreds men dragged the creature
And sacrifices were made to the gods
Who saved the Lord from the creature,
Homeward they joyfully plod'd.

The King with his staff that known day
Surprisingly stared at the struck thing
Taller than his abode, best of its days,
And then honoured the fearless Being.

For a month, they trooped to eat and drink,
Leaving him nothing to about think,
His brutal wounds were quickly healed,
After that, Muse, all were sealed.

How does Fame grow and then die?
What makes it live for a while
And then to the unknown place fly?
Its extinction brings the bitterest bile.

Had he known his later ill Fate,
Would he in the present have Faith?
Later, new stories were falsely made
And his name began to quickly fade.

They said he that could kill an elephant
With an ordinary cap in the forest
Would use his breath to kill an infant
And adult all who lacked a fortress.

In vain he strove to debunk the rumour
And to redeem his drowning image
And his life, that's becoming a humour,
In futile he attempted to patch the leakage.

While still alive, his precious name died,
He died before real Death came,
Under his own shadow he hide
And with regrets he swallowed the shame.

All deserted the loved, fine hunter,
At home, in the farm, at the four rivers,
With sorrow he licked the sour butter,
And pondered on how Life differs.

He's interred while his upset soul
Was still ailing in its aged prison.
None was with him, he was sole
Destroyed, he couldn't even reason.

He wept in his heart, wailed in his head,
Tears, sobbing, became his daily bread,
Away from him the whole world fled,
Then he remembered what'd been said:

'Fame, wealth and glory are fake,
They come for plenty pain sake,
Deception, betrayal they plan to make,
And put their loved ones' lives at stake! '

Warning from any mouth he never got,
Perhaps he might escape the lasting dot
Which came like a twisted, knitted knot.
He wished he belonged to the have-nots...