Monday, February 27, 2017

Their Heir Not Our Air



Break the broke down with clubs
Guide the poor to the pubs
Leave them no tropical fresh air
Until for him is found an heir

Dancing to the tune of country
Music warming hearts of con tree
Hill Billies blind to virtues
On the path of war, real truce

Holding the bloke out of every club
Keeping him away from every cup
And salvage the country in a mire drowning
Leaving no possibility of running

Spoil sport won’t escape this fate
For others he lay down hate
But the pen above hate flies
Noting the country’s cries

Noting our country’s cries
Pens do more than heave sighs
They prick the country to the pain
The pain she would everything slain

Once up and aware of ill
Unwanted heir’s sent uphill
For freshness to sweep the plain

For all to breathe without strain

Curled from Peace Mongers at War ©2009 Bill F Ndi

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