Out Of Turf Poem by Victor Okey Nwatu

When oil and water suddenly mix;
and regeneration power deserts the phoenix.
When fresh water resides in the Dead Sea;
and honey comes from another, not the bee.
It’s when the going gets tough;
and the ball rolls out of turf.

It’s when water floats on its brother, ice;
sugar taste bitter, pepper’s no longer a spice;
the Sahara has ice, no longer sand;
as its sands find their way to Greenland.
It’s when eloquence leaves the oratorical prof.
And the ball rolls out of its turf.

It’s like when R&B is rapped, and rap sung;
and the Church sees Big Bang as not wrong;
when the ocean is white, no longer blue;
and real stones fall from the sky, instead of dew.
It’s when tanks are not of metal, but of silky stuff.
That’s when the ball rolls out of its turf.

It’s when the Everest is the lowest depth;
Mariana Trench is the best in height’s length.
It’s when Gazprom buys gas, not sell;
and Saudi Arabia leaves the minaret for a tower of bell.
It’s when Cuba will, its communist hat, doff;
and the ball rolls out of its turf.

It’s when Nigeria’s head needs no analgesic;
when power supply ceases to be epileptic.
It’s when there are no Ghana Must Go sacks;
and contracts attract no type of kick-backs.
It’s when hunger leaves the masses’ neck scruffs;
And the balls leave their various turfs.

It’s when our youths never need the bridle;
And their souls are busy, never idle;
It’s when we once again become free;
and never chanting to any master, ‘we hail thee.”
It’s when we, in beating our chests, say ‘enough…’
And the ball rolls out of its turf.

The ball leaving its good old turf;
appears nearly impossible, or close enough;
and sometimes against the run of nature;
even though it’s of a desirable nature.
But, out of that turf, this ball must be;
if a better tomorrow, we all wish to see.