Nation On The Brink Poem by Timothy Faboade

The pilot, though seems very neat
When the ship is set to sail
With many passengers in the fleet,
The tide is fine, yet our hearts are frail.

He assures us all of a fair journey
On the wide, calm, blue sea
Yet our fears, tears are so many
Not of him that drives or the sea.

As we row the friendly watery way,
We feel the bad odour spreading
Among us, making us sway.
Towards division we're heading.

Different fingers of different sources
Of the once exploited Black Race
Are pointed to make the odour worse
The odour the pilot wants to lace.

'Unto your house, wretched, go
You're making our journey slow
A clog in our rolling, fast wheel
Go and let's enjoy our meal.'

Another whose earth offers wealth
Which though useless can be
Sprays some special threats
Roaring to halt the ship at a wee.

Then the fleet is set on division
Yet the sea, gentle, remains calm
But the Pilot, losing the vision
Projects an unknown false alarm.

A people is on the brim of brink
Caused by differences in tongue
A nation on the verge of sinking
After the composition of hatrey song.