They see their brothers' blood
In the street flowing like Noah flood
Cakes from the auto birds
Make their story analysts' mirth
Day in day out shells are dropped
And slowly their number is cropped.

Beautifully they are caged in camps
Receiving daily meals with stamps
They are far away from their lands
Which are being cared for by the bands
Who never like pianos, drums but bombs
To the melodious cries they are dumbs.

In cold, on shaft they knock doors
Begging to remould the entering laws
On the floor they drop their pride
To unknown norms they are to abide
While their heritages are being pillaged
In their various restive native villages.

At homes are their brethren's bones
Whose clothes are burnt by drones,
On these flies have a glorious feast
Praying for more cakes from sky beasts.
To these woes we wobbly tend
And out of sight is a near possible end.

Timothy Faboade