Chronicles of Kalakuta - Eke Victor

A jubilee-long war our ancestors didst fight
Comrades of corporate loot who did doom
Inadvertently they gloomily enthroned
And thus their woes were compounded

The voice of the man crying from Calcutta
And through the plains of Lagos, his echoes heard
Woe unto thy leaders! His carefree voice resounds
Filled with black-blooded charisma,
He picks up his saxophone and plays to the disgust of tyrants

His swagger the military detested
His Persistence the masses exalted
A republic in a republic he created
And thus his woes were compounded

An empire of National controversy
See from the rooftop the bond free
Hundreds of mafiosos in the territory
An activism centre for government's discomfiture
Beneath the rooftop the matron lay

Downstairs, the dancer in the tight orange tank top and pant
Her naked navel in between
Lay languidly on a couch
The man slumped on her laps and sang gently
The others passed around joints
Filling the room with strong whiff of marijuana

Leaving questions on lips of many
Who are the tyrants,
The kalakuta boys on the street of Shitta
Or the khaki-wearing zombies?

On that ill fated eve when Kalakuta fell
Unlike Jericho, no item was left undone
Through the windows you could see the matron dive
Diving into death more like superman without wings
And soon the territory would be razed by world class zombies

A diminuendo it brought to Kalakuta
Yet his career was stricken to a crescendo
Men and Women, Old and young
Would be found on the streets
Singing his songs of putsch
Putsch after putsch, decades rolled over

The one who had death in his pouch
Was defied by it's cold hands
Great black clouds and flashes of lighting seared the eyes
Had death taken the wrong person?
Did he recheck the image his Master gave him?
Wasn't he sent to Otta farm?

Dost thou bother more? Time flies
Lo! His prognosis were not pipedreams
Now on our glorified thrones sit
Traders of flesh in exchange of oil and gas
Retsina-like bottles of human blood
In their wine racks they store

Green White Green
The peasants flag once waved
Brown Red Brown
For it's once Richland is now a desert of hay
And through it's once peaceful and placid streams
Now flow blood of the innocents

Who would succeed without drinking of it?
And temples exceed congregation numerically
How would the just be saved?
Where should he run to for safety?
His blood might be the next to be spilled
Vpoems/0714