Port Harcourt, my Port Harcourt,
A baronial city, bedraggled and obstreperous;
A city with the good, the bad and the ugly,
Deprived of all in tandem with beauty.

Port Harcourt, my renowned Garden City,
Parlous, galling and , of course, shambolic;
A city where the gardens are but mere weeds;
One where looters and junkies own the streets.

Port Harcourt, my Port Harcourt,
I wish I could controvert that you aren't the Port Harcourt Deceased Mama told me about.
'What's happened to you?' I ask forlornly.

Port Harcourt, Port Harcourt,
My conspicuously higgledy-piggledy habitat;
A city pregnant with perfidy and dolour,
Ah, I really can't conceal my scunner.

Port Harcourt, Port Harcourt,
The city of the majority fishers and few farmers;
A city transmuted into oceans in rainy days,
With streets flooded and properties mangled,
Thanks to days of unceasing patterings.

I weep for Port Harcourt, I weep for my city;
I weep for my land, I weep for my government.
Come save us, Lord, from this melancholy;
Make our government worthy of plaudits.
Let our city be transmuted into an ambrosial state.

I pray my city be rid of purloiners, oh Lord!
Let things be the way everyman can afford.
I pray my city be one not askew or macaronic
But one worthy of a gazillion eulogies.
God bless Port Harcourt.