Lagatees Poem by Haruna Garba

Seven brisk princesses born to the queen
And when she comes to the end of the road
It wearies me how the threads could be sorted out

The first, by virtue of being just this flaunts flag
Another by his treasure-trove sounds a gong
The rest only just modest still in on the rancor race

Seven heirs to a single great crown!

And i begin to wonder what the six eventually feel
The moment one pin is dramatically sorted out
Selected when ONE is, to fit in to the single hallow hole

Would one really feel bitter about a kinsman?
Would one think nothing for losing to the kin?