Funeral Calls Poem by Olorode Olorunleke

Within the sketch of a house top my hair laid.
In bewilderment on the street I saw a disarrayed
feet for the clarion's call.
Not in honour of a man in metallic monster for life
restore or death gain.
Nor the second coming could uplift anxiety for our
bones to lay in waste.
Behold him coming, making his parts straight.
in whose shoulder our liberation do glory.
In adoration and praise we gave you our hearts but
chief whip you've ordained on us.
The glory of our womb you're turning to serpent for
hope of your households.
Beast, beast is your name.
Every four years you've ordained to atone our
gluttons in carting away our fortunes.
Be it far from you that our heads live in debt to your
masters.
Our ears are block to the sound of your daily
funeral.
Our laws are void to the manifestation of your
power but swords they're to the poor.
Our hope do lay to see nail being screw into your
ears sisera.
Our veils will be lifted into human rights activism,
That Sahara will be a place of snow to you,
merchant.
While your Hall of shame Will lunch out soon that
our lost hope is restore.
olorode olorunleke