His blood littered the street as fumigation,
From their basket of bird-brain-bullets.
They also did not spared a dine in his wallets.
It was a plot for his assassination,
He made them suffered humiliation,
He proved their police training was a waste.
For he was more trained than them without salary.
They are only good at breaching their privilege.
Barrels of bullets rain on innocent walls,
Like a snow in a show on a summer sun;
Like a shooting stars falling without control.
His step was faster that a rolling ball.
Their bullets as fast as thunder after a fall.
They claimed it was an invitation,
But left with him from their satanic station.
In the full darkness of the night.
Like a rolling ball; Celebrated at the net,
His feet became a ghost at their bet.
With eight assassins claiming to be police.
Beating him handcuffed like a terrorist?
Assisted by those claimed to be his friends?
Who gave him up for a dried fried.
Death is indeed;
Still far from him.
He has escaped from tomb,
Like an unborn child in the mother's womb.
Sèssé is now married.
The police wanted wasting a good husband and a father.
Sèssé may not be a saint;
But Sèssé is not the one with the devil's address,
The Nigeria Police are murderers.
® Sir Prince Ojoka
©princeojok
P