I’m not any being
I have no real existence
But in the mind of amateurs and crooks
Only instrumental without being any instrument

I’m a mere idea, a left-over
Of selfish confabulations
I have not existence of my own
I am not me; I have neither anatomy nor physiology

As a point I appear in-between
Discordant integration
Of real things ingenuous, naïve, uneducated, uncultured, poor, hardworking
By the genius of selfish machination
I’m a point drawn on the ground by a mortal hand.

I’m just a location useful
For as long the act’s in progress and meaningful
They call me vital organism that must not die
There is a rock somewhere
Under which fortune in torrent springs
This rock has the sanctity not me

This rock is the reason they act villain in this location
The act they believe is once for all and the victims
Are kept as on-lookers
To cheer or jeer
Uselessly

So do not weep for me
If I’m battered, dirty and squalid
Weep for your children – they are the victims of the villainy
In this horrendous theater of the oppressed
They are the famished, diseased, trafficked, maimed, killed, burned
In the giants’ clash of lust
To direct the lighting and darkening of this stage.
They are the jobless, thugs, thieves and criminals behind irons
And at the gallows take last gulp of breath in truthful service
Of some grand criminal GCON.
They are the battered, dirty and squalid

Weep for your children
I’m not battered
I told you I’m not a being; I do not exist
I’m instrumental without being an instrument
Then to England and now to the native elite.
I may continue or discontinue
But that is none my decision, nor God’s
But of the hands and mouths by which I am drawn
And in constant lily-gilding embellished.

‘Deji W. Adesoye