Poetry

August 17, 2017 Poetry , POETRY / FICTION

Don Ross III photo

 

By

Success Akpojotor

 

 

Manifesto

 

 

I want to be your president

I kneel and plead your votes

I’m destined to be the number one man

Can’t you read it in my palm lines?

I shall build bridges where there are no rivers

I shall plant food crops on rock soils

I shall light a candle under a table

I shall loot and give you your share

You shall eat as I eat

Your children don’t need examinations: they shall all be certified

 

I want to be your governor, why should I beg for your votes?

I have a PhD in leadership, you have no choice but me

It’s my turn to eat oil-money

It’s my turn to puppet the force

It’s my turn to drive in convoys

It’s my turn to inhabit Aso Rock’s prototype

Whether you vote or not, I’ll win

Tribunal or not, I’ll continue

Protest or not, you’re on your own

Strike or not, you will get fatigue

You can’t beat me, so join me

You can’t conquer me, so accept my carrot

 

I shall become Senator, it’s a do or die affair

I shall blindfold you with legal tender

And you shall mortgage me your future

 

I am already Honorable, to hell with your votes

I have a powerful godfather, to him I’m loyal.

He knows how to manipulate the system

My opponents are no match for him

My godfather, to him I’m accountable

 

I will be your Chairlady: I’m sexy and beautiful

Your votes count but you won’t count them

My lips are florid. My hips are rigid

I shall feed him from my honeypot

He shall make me like the Chairman

 

You shall give us your votes because we are principalities

Our manifesto shall manifest because we promise you the impossible

 

 

 

 

Facebook

 

 

Higgledy-piggledy: a gyration is anear.

Me in series of jolts. Tell me what to do Mr. Minister.

All Facebook is agog with my face.

 

There’s a youngish activist in downtown Ajegunle.

He’s good and young blood but pursues an insane cause,

Let’s cook up a bill to replace your face on Facebook

and restrict his vile cause.

 

Wahala Wahala: the jobs are leaving our shores,

I can’t retrieve them as I promised.

Mr. Chief of Staff how do I save face on Facebook?

 

There lives a fetching ecclesiastic in uptown,

he’s princely, and to a fault. Let’s give the populace

fetish pictures of his forgotten guilty pleasures on Facebook.

 

Va Va Va vroom: This is now a black house.

My face roasts as my butts and everyday Facebook shows

bombed faces. Mr. Special Adviser, tell me what to stream.

 

Some of the people love to blame; the people want an enemy.

Sign an executive order: ban all avion from Damascus

and Persia and others. Stream it live on Zuckerberg’s app.

The people will be distracted.

 

The new uprising is: Make Him Furious Again.

They will say I love to tweet: but I love this country and

want to make it earth’s greatest; Zuckerberg’s nation makes me cry.

Dear wife, what to do?

 

With all due respect sir: let the people their freedom,

let the community their rights, do not debate it – it’s atrocious.

Boko Haram, Al Qaeda and ISIL can’t represent an entire faith.

Kudirat’s luv was a good Prophet.

 

Pedophiles and sociopaths cannot represent a community.

Put country above party; and surround yourself with humans.

Invest in pizza, paper and people and not in little boy.

Have a gold heart, get a sound mind and get a life off Facebook.

For you will be printed in history: will it be good or bad or ugly?

Nothing is forever: not this palace, not even Facebook!

 

 

 

 

 

Success Akpojotor

Success Akpojotor writes gratifying, great, gripping mysteries. His characters are brainy and plucky, but in real life, Success is afraid of nukes, guns, and strippers.

Success thinks he’s from the Future; but when he’s sipping smoothie, he believes he is William Shakespeare reincarnated into the 21st century. Follow him at @sadavidia.

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