By Tikum Mbah Azonga
I saw the skylark strike its only birdling
Far away from man's naked eye
Yet close enough for virgins to see and wail
Standing by on tiptoe yet unseen
Were the Lords of the Flies
Too full of garlic onion to chant.
This little hand of mine so poor at cuddling
For a long time silenced like the deadly sky
Kept tabs on the illfated campaign trail
Like the wounded king of the jungle and his beleaguered queen
When their spies let off those shrill cries.
Since far off hills look green, musn't we all rant?