Mister Idiot: Crying over ‘Spilled Milk’

Hey, crying over spilled milk, spilled milk I say!  Chey!  How Africans love the dead is the same – they do with silver stars. The star shaded trees, they say are never valued, but when they are slit in tear woods –they cry over it ashes. Hmm! This same implies when a patient is ailing, Africans would not dare – a dime help the bedridden with bills to makeup one’s health, but when one dies – they would come with cows, bags of rice, cash, – we came to sympathize – why didn’t they empathized in the first place to have stop the stealthy hands of death?

Now on his funeral, they came to read tributes – he was a good fellow, neighbor, cousin and all. Those big lousy crier notes would say we wish he would have been here; and that is when your tribute is full of praises.

The same with political suitors who dime dreams of spadework; little knowing spade-works are having image rights. If you failed to give me leadership that I demand with all quests on a south-gate excuse, the cow that spilled the milk considers, I failed – it means, and I’m here in a corner licking my wounds, now playing the inquisitive in question tags –why have I kept silent over my future without knowing the present is a gift, you watch me and denied it to me. Don’t ask why I’m licking my wounds like a prided cat.

Hey the future looms and the theorists came with their patience lesson ‘if e bin bear na e turn bin for kam so’ (had he being patient it would have been his right time next). There is too much milking, then, I suddenly decided to hang a boot. This was time everybody is clamoring, let’s form a workforce. Then I realized I was Messi, Iker Casilas, Steven Gerard, and Theo Walcott, the best goal scorer, goalkeeper, midfielder and winger. But it’s like when somebody is dead already –leave his carcass to rot. I desire a wink outside politics! Una nor mona me bo!

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