He litters his walkway with gold
And dazzles your eyes with all his silver
He puffs a royal fragrance over his smelly fart
Foolishly you sneak out at night
Into his bed of thorns.

Poor child
I wonder if your sight fails you
For if they don’t
You would know from his gray
That your grandfather is a boy to him

But it is these fancy things
Tours to foreign cities
Goodie bags of old witches
That you exchange for your pride
On his bed of thorns!

Written by: Anyi Charles Egbe
Edited by: Kukogho Iruesiri Samson

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