By Tikum Mbah Azonga
Mournful is this morning
The red, red roses have drooped
The white lilies have withered
The fleeting ants have stalled
And their files have been distorted
All the heavenly birds have shut up
And the music of the air is snuffed out.
Our bishop is astounded
The prefect, overwhelmed
The pastor, flabbergasted
And the Lord Mayor, flushed
For is this some conspiracy?
Why shut all the taps at the same time?
Is it a way of cutting off the human race?