The son of a poor Somali; He loved education and his curly, radiant hairs, Ladies flocked around him in their droves, Yet so poor, naive and too meek,
He would grow to be his parents' pride, When he's out and he brings back a pretty, gorgeous bride, Perhaps he will attend a school in Nairobi, And pick his wife from Uganda,
He went to school amidst the troubles, Making it through the nights was too much a hustle, The books he read were just for fun, Since he knew nothing about them,
Father is sick, mother is dying, Poor Somali boy keeps trying, Then one night, At the death of the night, When "wee" is the description of the hour, Something louder than his father's rage was in the air, Perhaps some are doing merry making, For the schools in Mombasa have admitted them, But Lo! Behold, it is a bomb behind their ears, Father died from the blast as he marched in weakness to his grave, And mother is alive in heaven after her death on earth, Poor man's son on a poor day, What life has served him is a poor session,
He fled his village for Mogadishu, Where there was a peace pleading with wars, He saw the morgues and the shoes, And his courage bled from sores, Belligerents caught up with him and he was handed a gun, "You shoot, you shoot and you let your bullets run" That was his life making a turn, For the worse? No, for the curse!
The cloud was dark and the morning almost passed, Soot and smoke soothed his choke, Amidst the war he took a bottle of coke, And admirably, he stood up and spoke, "War is good for my bloke"
He had fled Mogadishu before the morning called, The morgues and the shoes got his confidence hauled, Poor Somali boy moved and ran as fast as he could, But no! His fate wouldn't, Death was the end of his journey, After all, he had no soul to mourn his demise, There on the Sahara, he laid, While the winds and sands blinded him, The vultures plucked his visionary eyes, And the earths ate his wholesome dreams!