On the burnt ashes,
the remaining of our village
stand a frail female Nightingale.
A model widow
looking so pale
from head to tail
A sorrowful song of 'lament'
sour her tongue as she wail
why is our serene village,
our at ease frontage
now a space of bane?
slowly, our joy reduces to anxiety,
to fear and finally to tears of anguish
that sprang from our weepy eyes
and flurry the the surface of the earth.
Why is our once limpid streams
and frontage wells
now a settlement of your cruel fuel;
that natural mineral oil
from our soil,
Your wall street oil,
an angelic demonic fluid
that you boil
whose spillage and leakage
barren our soil of fertility
ino oooooo! YEEH! ino oooo
araa dugbo egba wa ooooooo
araa dugbo egba wa ooooooo
Our spindly legs
rush out of our huts;
our thatched roofs blazing to the floor
chasing us out of our homes
like a snail that finds splinters in her shell.
our water that once soothes
as it smooth our skins
from our heads to foots
now fries our peoples flesh
leaving them skinless,
lip-less skeletal brown teeth
lying on our streets.
