Suicide In The Village Poem by Nana Kwame Nketsiah

Ah the drum sound,
The owl takes to flight.
Far away from civilization,
The deadly cult sound.

Bring to me the laborers tool,
Brig to me the drunkard's bottle.
Let appease the wrath of the gods,
No abomination has been cause.

There lies the disgraceful child,
From the womb of a holy mother.
Butchered to pieces in his own greed,
Lifeless leaflet, bring to me the drunkards bottle

Let appease the gods,
Distasteful wind of the night,
Send our plight to the gods,
Hence no calamities shall befall.

Bring to me the drunkards bottle,
Oh asaase efua.
Let not our feet be soiled,
From the fury of your wrath.

Bring to me the drunkards bottle,
Oh otwediapon nyame
Hear our pitiful soul cry out,
Let not your wrath, thunder us to death.

Ah, I say bring to me the drunkards bottle,
Oh, hmm bring to me the laborers tool.
This night has been defiled,
Let not our calamities see daylight.