6,3,3,4. Poem by Olorode Olorunleke

In a row, it's stated life takes its turn.
Walking and beeping
My life has never proceeds to run.
This thought that makes me low for death in dew,

Let it even come that my conscience will rise in pain.
My parents and siblings I pity
In lieu of my thought they will daily chew.
Not for me to make this a prime to reign

But of our court
That has made us to journey on the skull.
In daily combat for survival
To pay attention to the stomach's call.

6,3,3,4 the bedrock of our plight
And the destroyer of our grants.
To him our gift has lost its pride
Than to lust after Tolulope,

Not yielding to your advice
had turned the likes of us to modern slaves.
Yet no one can live right without your training,
Let me be wise and key to your advise

To build my villa on your caves,
Women, what are you doing to our world?
You've placed in your hands mighty rods
To beat our hearts,
In wideness of your eyes
You suffer a good seed to harvest the shaft.
For your sake giants are lost to him
In whose chain you make your freedom,

Every year flowers we place
On their heads for their birthday.
When will you regain your sight
And be out of your bay.
Leke be dead in your thought
And be reasonable
For the purpose of bar part ll.