FUNERAL PROCESSION
 |
| To the memory of late Mrs. Iyabode Odeyemi |
What a world
we are,
A continent
we are.
What sort of
specie are we?
What sort of
kingdom are we?
The
cacophonic trumpet blow,
And the
undertaker men in suit throw,
The wooden
box on their shoulder acrobatically,
In a high
spirit displaying dramatically,
Like actors
on the theatre pit dramatizing drastically.
All dressed
in the same attire for the same cause,
Trudging in
funeral procession to the same court,
Many with
motive of merriment,
While others
seriously melting.
Heads of
cattle however being displace,
Exorbitant
inns been put in place,
And
entertainers with their gadgets well set,
Oozing out
ecstasic songs in a melancholic set.
The
non-blood related guest pilling up plates,
And at the
same time vying for more crates.
When the
blood relations are all in distraught,
The moon and
the sun staggering and sobbing in frost.
Is this
really a celebration of death or birth?
When instead
of dirge a joyful hymn is being sang.
Dedicated to the memory of Late Mrs Iyabode Odeyemi Vesper
Stankovic
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