Where are the gods by Oki Kehinde Julius

Appease the gods,
Remove from their eye,the logs.
Are they blind to see with this opened eye?
That their emperor life
Is threatened to die
Awake the god of iron,
To slumber not,
Amidst this risky vulgar.
Suffice it,
With a beckon clarion
Placate ritual, with the blood of dog.
Assuage our land and make us triumph,
If truly,
You’re the god of this present vogue.

Bathe not with water,
We beseech thee,
To swim in perpetrators blood.
They’ve projected on our soil,
A chronic blubber,
Tear and wear,
Their flesh, like palm frond.

Has sango,
Went on an exile?
Allowing hazard to engulf our land,
In its lifetime.
Has its mystique thunder,
ceased to valid,
While the suicide killers are giving us a panic.

Thou who strike the cloud,
With double headed axe,
Much like the,
Mythic nordic Thor.
Why banging the drum of war,
Hostiles, are rolling us,
On the Rhythm of thy storm.
Lightning of thy thunder,
Struck like fire
Erstwhile, when still worshipped like heir
What happened?
Is thou really tired,
Of absurdity towards us in this risky trial.

Confess to us,
If truly you’re dead,
Boko bombs, no longer shiver,
when thy thunder is heard.
Death now parades our land,
With a hearse,
Thy loyal tempestuous,
Is solemnly dearth.

Insurgence, soaked our land with blood,
Eyeball, spring tears, like flood.
Tooth gnashing teeth, in agony,
Heart, pounding fears of disharmony.
Mass burial, becomes a ceremony,
Where gods suck blood,
Quenching glory.

Is Obatala,
Still very drunk,
To rescue its creature,
from prickled thorns.
Prove to the triggers,
That you’re a slug,
Kill them, with a fumbling alcoholic finger of wrath.

Remove the cloth,
Covering the Masquerade,
Let their magical powers, be unveiled.
The God I know, don’t put on rag,
He don’t wear bubu and ankara.
Tattered rags, covers thy face,
From seeing, those dying in fate.
Thy hand held firmly,
the machete,
To murder slayers, slippery our legs to death.
Your leg, resemble that of human,
Still You claim, You’re from sea land.
They appease thee, with holy water,
Thou generously zip,
till thy leg stager.
So we worship a drunkard,
Whose reputations, equate that of Lagbaja.
If truly, you are god,
Why not stop, the shedding of innocent blood.

Are the gods sleeping,
To hear, the bomb blasting.
Innocent tomb, they crave as their bed,
Slumbering, in wake of this bloody dread.

Where are this gods,
Who in their lifetime, are warriors,
Can’t they longer hold their sword,
To slay and murder our Liquidator.
Annually, they are pacified with ritual of dog,
Yet, they allow,
the shedding of blood.
We give to them, their due appease,
Still, they fail to give us, our peace.

The gods, are all dead,
Chronically, they are all deaf.
Their eyes, are blind,
They are cruel and unkind.
The gods, are Fraudster,
They are all drunkard.

We shall, go back to our Lord,
Only him, is the Supreme GOD.
On his rock, we shall firmly stand,
We shall neglect the gods and their shrine.
We shall worship him wholeheartedly with our hearts,
Only him, can stop the tribulation in our earth.
Osanobuwa, is still very living
The gods and goddess are no more existing.


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