There in, he is vilified yet celebrated
There after, he is vilified
But the celebrators are gone
Old soldier
Arriving with remedy
As he mowed and jerked
The ‘power drunk’ fellow loosed knots
Harshly, as we celebrate
We woe and curse, mostly
Chorusing with the nzes
In trouble times
He, the monster from the rocky patch, wasn’t
Alone in the pitch
Of our spectatorship
We asked not his faith
As he didn’t, being for all
Now we toil to cast his fate
Denied glory
By copiers of his swagger, and
Imitators of his doggedness
If for his wealth, rising folds
Or his act, like god persona
In camp I booed
I acted foolish, I cursed my wish
Being eight of ten who will.
The praise singer I need not be
But we need answer our role
And to his own fate
Let old soldier be