They come like saints,
Like angels sent to our rescue,
They promise us heaven and earth,
They are given the post to sit on,
We wait for our saints to come,
But things remain the same,
They take our money to paradise,
With families and friends,
They abandon us,
We protest but, we are beaten,
Molested and even killed,
Their bellies are swollen with
our money,
While ours makes noise of
hunger and poverty.

© favour omo