Silent Complaint Poem by Timothy Faboade

The sore will never stop pouring pus,
The more it's refreshed, the more
It reproduces though not fruits but pus.
When the wound is healed
The spot will remain forever peeled.
Punches on the sight every blessed day,
If the eyes don't go blind, and become stale,
They wouldn't see vividly again, so goes a say.
To foreign lands the fresh crude cakes
Are being pillaged to though.
Rendering small the black bough.
A butcher's son battling with bones,
For the fresh succulent fleshes are gone,
A clothes seller's daughter fancying with rags.
They are as productive as the stags,
So goes another say.
You can't create terrific terrors,
Forget naira.
You can't in the account cause errors,
Forget naira.
You can't explore the heavy nights
With various sticks that talk,
When there's no light for the nights,
Forget naira in your sour stock.
I won't have my head if I should talk
For the servants of servants are raging
Not that they haven't had their wages.
The callous ones on the power corridors
Parading themselves as nothing but saviours
Deafening their ears to my words
For they aren't in my world.
Don't tell them I say these:
They're the ones breeding honesty,
They're the ones nurturing sanity,
Although this can be seen in brevity
At different centers and banquets,
The natives of the streets are the villains
On our face as a people they're the stains