We ask the tyrants:
Why do men loudly call, to piquant meals of tasty yam,
And knowingly forge unequal knives?
Why do men have to till the soil,
Amid dropping tricklets of sweat,
Before they can be treated as men,
And men too, thump the ground,
With their Agbadas and nicely woven caps,
Theirs is to fill empty seats,
In an idle palace, called 'the house',
Wherein you find pot-bellied men,
Who make up a 'cabinet', That refutes laws by shouting 'nay',
And passes laws by muttering 'hi',
Laws over men,
But they ask us too:
Is it not fire that moulds the padlock,
That also forged the key?
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