Our land stands like Miss Three,
Pregnant of mystery yet to be unfolded.
The beast that kills our best
Is a friend in need, but not in deed.
We had a sister
Who kept herself as a virgin
At the verge inn as Miss Grace,
But how can we apportion grace to Miss Grace
When she has already tagged herself ‘disgrace’?
This grace is a short race to grace
All her ‘okay’ shuns.
We had a sister who prided herself
As the giant of Africa,
But have now been eaten by low self-esteem
As the elf of Africa.
We had a sister, saintly and incorrupt.
Now, she harvests corruption
To eat them like yams with red oil.
Our sister have probably lose her six stars.
We had a sister—
If the land is crazy,
She is the one that holds her sanity.