ÒGÚN and the Quick-witted

The day comes to a close,
The Sun has gone to rest
The hen has gone to roost
Her chicks are less one
But she does not know, or
Couldn’t care less about it
What good is care to the weak
When might prevail still
The hawk grows fat on the young fowl’s essence
Perched atop the northern mountains
Out of reach from man and beast
The great flood is come again
Their wings bear them away
Ends there are, but means are not
Hopes and dreams is all we’ve got
Their arks, they build with planks of blood
But safe they sail even in storm
Where lies the face of the gods, or
The God we choose to set above
Is he asleep, blind or dumb, or
Has the devil we made usurped or God?
The chosen few take it all
The cake for all, swallowed by one
Tomorrow’s yam is roasted tonight
Omodedere yet starves on
Still we bow and scrape
Applauding every crumb that drops from the great oaken table.
Shouts of joy rent the air
A chunk of half-rotten mutton has dropped into our laps
The gods truly bless us.
Blinded by crumbs in our eyes
We sings praise songs for the flavour we perceive
Feeding on blood-stained crumbs
We fight to survive
The gods will liberate us someday
So we say, when nothing spills
We fail to grasp the simple truth
Ògún only favours the quick sitter
The Olympians will not meddle with men as long as Zeus lives
He who desires liberation gains it by force
The boot that wears the boot of oppression
Does not move till it is struck
God is asleep, blind or deaf
And the gods do battle only by the might of men
If we live on crumbs by faith
The gods look on in silence
By rousing from our tepid state are the gods agitated
Arise, ye that seek liberation
And wrest it by force.


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