OMISOREBy Okubokekeme, Peremobowei Geoffrey

When towards that game time runs,
Where lowly feet toward lofty seats incline,
But their fate, left for the thumbs to will,
That game where rarely none is innocent;
Where even virtue is clothed in spotted garment,
Such ambition men, for the helm to secure,
As fear upon their icy faiths tread,
Would remain rivals with fiendish gifts,
And permit not genuine recourse,
Spare not their purse,
But generously spill bribe in every realm,
And with eager lips soft-soap corrupted thumbs,
Who for a moment change their future bargain,
And to such ambition men sell the helms.

About the author

Bada Yusuf Amoo