Omoekun IluNla


Brain Dead

On the chop board of history we glory lay
Expecting to be grilled with rage once again
With the demented bouquet of our collective idiocy
A sweet meal to the hills of the gods we sober serve
Their tables we set in relished ache
Even though their crumbs are out of bounds,
yet the smell of their air makes us chortle

We sit and watch this uproarious pun

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