There’s this phrenology we were taught when the
World still had her intestines intactꓽ when the skull mounds
Up on the forehead —the sinciput of grace —
It is a head of crisis.

Like the new moon, a New Crisis has risen above us.
Darkness mumbles loud words, of a swarm of
Ridiculous locusts, which has pillaged our fields,
Harming every single blade,
Runcinated and monstrous to the eyes
Our waters turn crimson with hate
We thirst and hanker after even a drop from bitter leaf.

This new crisis prayed against by bishops!
Royal chaplets have broken loose,
Scattering beads beyond turbulent rivers.
Native women have stripped in broad daylight to showcase
Their praying and pleading power.
Roadside sacrifices with ancient coins and wealthy bunches of
Floral plumage seek attention of oblation
Lizards continually nod their heads in silent assembly
Cocks have crowed louder, and in mistier dawns,
Just for the heavens to hear and witness . . . .
Still New Crisis looms.
We tread on slippery, serpentine footpaths,
Endless in their course . . .
Our elders query quietlyꓽ has the glory departed?

In this new crisis, we have wept.
Our mothers, sisters and wives have ululated louder
Than esurient, shuffling crocodiles in mud waters
Frenetic, bibulous fellows have fomented disaster after disaster
Why?

Nimbus has rumbled low and voicelessly,
Ready to send down rain to wash off coagulated evil
On thresholds of fertile skirmishes
But a wicked, hostile sun persists and has melted the
Fusion of the nimbus and munificent skies
Daily, our greens get scourged and the ecology is
Mercilessly baked.
The earth boils on . . . .

In all seasons, we moan and decry this supercilious
Crisis, which we fear may never cease.