Yet, He Died Poem by Akinmuleya Alfred

YET, HE DIED

We are here to mourn our friend,
Who led an ascetic life?
Shrewd, astute and virtuous as he was,
He died.

Upright as himself, second to none
His arduous engrossed incessant obscene
But these clandestine deeds
Are now covered with his closed eyes
For nobody his clay feet indeed saw.
So meritorious -
Yet as upright as he was,
He died.

We shall talk more of our friend
And the timorous terror of his name
That caused infants to rain down their pants;
When this name is forgotten by birds that sang it.
For as famous as he was,
He died.

AKINMULEYAA. ALFRED
©2018