My blood suppurated fatherland
With evil minds in garland
And trophies of splashed intestines
And warm crimson dripping the spines.
When liberty seems like the sun,
After booming rifles and dane gun
Rising from the sea at midnight,
Tribalism effortlessly throws it offsight.
Dusted off all vestige of justice
With ambush disguised in truce,
Throws off all modicum of morality,
Godliness is observed with frugality.
Yet, we bask, we frolic in guilt
Weak voices cry with famished lilt,
This black hearts on my motherland
Has brought us hitherto hinterland.
YOU ARE READING
MIDNIGHT SUN
PoetryToday, we ought to wear our gauntlets, Put on our amour and canvass grits, Forward! Though our sword are skillets, We win even though we lost by bits.
