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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