The National Cake
The green and white is stained with ink, from pens that bleed the state,Where "national cake" is sliced in rooms, behind a heavy gate.A budget is a storybook, of roads that never start,While billions vanish in the mist, a practiced, silent art.The transformer hums a dying tune, then flickers into black,While generators roar like lions, on the people's back.The oil flows like a river's veins, out to a distant shore,But those who walk upon the rigs are hungry, tired, and poor.Checkpoints stand like toll booths, manned by uniforms of tan,Where "anything for the boys?" is how you prove you are a man.The rule of law is flexible, a garment made to fit,The highest bidder takes the stand and makes a meal of it.The youth carry their certificates, like shields against the rain,But merit is a ghost that haunts the corridors of pain.You need a name, a "godfather," a shadow in the high,To get the chance to earn a wage beneath the tropic sky.They wear the flowing agbada, with lace as white as snow,And promise bridges over lands where waters do not flow.The irony is sharp and cold: the leaders we adore,Are building mansions on the ground where we are kept so poor.
G