Most respected comrades, heirs and heiresses,
Excavating our contemporary petrified muck,
Studying my days through the dark dead centuries.
Excavating our contemporary petrified muck,
Studying my days through the dark dead centuries.
You'll
Maybe,
Ask about me.
And maybe your scholars will then reveal,
Swamping with erudition,
Questions that swarm.
Ask about me.
And maybe your scholars will then reveal,
Swamping with erudition,
Questions that swarm.
There lived once a singer,
blood all aboil,
who hated most cold eater raw.
Professor,
take off those optical bicycles!
I'll myself relate about the times, about myself.
blood all aboil,
who hated most cold eater raw.
Professor,
take off those optical bicycles!
I'll myself relate about the times, about myself.
I came from the seignorial horticulture of poetry,
a most capricious dame.
Precious muse that grows like Mary, roses round a bungalow,
who the devil knows, which from which
no quarantine will take them in.
There are those mandolins again.
"Tara-tina Tara-tina....... t____e_____n_,___n_____"
Not much of an honour.
That from such roses
my very own status will rise over squares.
I am fed to hades with agitprop,
I'd like to scribble for you love ballads
They are quite charming and pay quite a lot.
But I mastered myself.
And crushed under foot the throat of my own poems.
Hi, listen!
Comrades, heirs, heiresses,
To an agitator.
Loudspeaker-in-chief,
Deafening poetic deluge,
I stride to you through lyrical volumes as the live with the dead speak.
I'll come to you in the distant communist far off.
But not like Yessenin's rhymed knight errants.
My verses will reach over the peaks of eras.
Far over the heads of poets.
My verse will come not ornate.
Not like an arrow love flight from Eros,
Not like a worn out coin and not like the light of long dead stars.
My verse will thrust through weighted years, emerging, ponderous, rock rough as when today.
An aqueduct appears firm grounded once.
My words are not used to caressing ears nor titillate with semi obscenities like maiden hair hidden in hair so innocent.
My verses stands in heavy lead letters,
Ready for the death and the deathless glory.
Stock still stand my poems.
Muzzle to muzzle set.
Their gaping titles aimed and at the ready.
My cavalry of wit, tilting the deadsome rhymes.
a most capricious dame.
Precious muse that grows like Mary, roses round a bungalow,
who the devil knows, which from which
no quarantine will take them in.
There are those mandolins again.
"Tara-tina Tara-tina....... t____e_____n_,___n_____"
Not much of an honour.
That from such roses
my very own status will rise over squares.
I am fed to hades with agitprop,
I'd like to scribble for you love ballads
They are quite charming and pay quite a lot.
But I mastered myself.
And crushed under foot the throat of my own poems.
Hi, listen!
Comrades, heirs, heiresses,
To an agitator.
Loudspeaker-in-chief,
Deafening poetic deluge,
I stride to you through lyrical volumes as the live with the dead speak.
I'll come to you in the distant communist far off.
But not like Yessenin's rhymed knight errants.
My verses will reach over the peaks of eras.
Far over the heads of poets.
My verse will come not ornate.
Not like an arrow love flight from Eros,
Not like a worn out coin and not like the light of long dead stars.
My verse will thrust through weighted years, emerging, ponderous, rock rough as when today.
An aqueduct appears firm grounded once.
My words are not used to caressing ears nor titillate with semi obscenities like maiden hair hidden in hair so innocent.
My verses stands in heavy lead letters,
Ready for the death and the deathless glory.
Stock still stand my poems.
Muzzle to muzzle set.
Their gaping titles aimed and at the ready.
My cavalry of wit, tilting the deadsome rhymes.
Sharp pointed spears.
I give to you
I give to you
'Planet Proletariat'
The foe of the working class is my own foe.
Dead, poisonous and ancient.
Let glory disconsolate widow frail.
Trudge after genius in funeral anthems.
Rise, my verse.
Rise like rank and file.
The foe of the working class is my own foe.
Dead, poisonous and ancient.
Let glory disconsolate widow frail.
Trudge after genius in funeral anthems.
Rise, my verse.
Rise like rank and file.
Reveal me.
Written by: Damola Olayiwola.
I wish I could say more but you are good.. U can almost make a rhythmic poem, ild love to read one of them if not all
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