Sons Of The Savannah Poem by Woru Sulyman

Forged in the scoting sun of the savannah
Tempered in the harsh cold of it's harmattan
Oh! Fathered yet fatherless sons of the Savannah

Marching with unity of purpose,
Though not in unison
Moving aimlessly without boots
Neither old nor worn
Never privileged to the tenderness of silk
Looking for a bite of crumbled bread
Or a taste of spilt milk
They are the sons of the Savannah

Born to circumstance,
Bred instead of for the driving force of the land,
As an army for a price of ignorance
One which can turn a town to a wasteland
They are the patent orphans of the North

Alas! Stand we must
To the plight of those orphans
Before we feel their vengeful thrust
Or they turn us to warring clans