The clock ticks away
As they write their poems
Time goes by
As they pour ink on paper
Works are left undone
As their eyes and hands glue to paper
Who will save the poets?
From their craft
From their addiction
From their obsession
From their mastery of words
Only they claim that lofty title
Yes! The masters of wards
What else will be their servants?
What kind of people?
Claims to be the masters of words
How come they enslave the spoken wards?
Now You See they are drunkards
Drunk in their own foolishness
No wonder the spoken words they coveted
Run wild
Wild like their foolish masters
No one can understand them
Not even the wisdom of Solomon
The clock ticks away
As the poets and poems
Enjoy nocturnal conjugal bliss
Time goes by
As the poets play endlessly
With their foolish words
-Izu Chigbolumogu
