Once upon a noon,
The Lagos Lagoon, to me it croons,
Men like machines I see,
Hefty, black and built,
Plastered in treacles of salty fluids.
Like wet clothes,
The raging sun they gulp in large dose,
In a quest were all done,
For food on the table, they do their arduous runs.
Canoes of wood rocking to the rhythm of the grey-blue waters,
Like yards of bed sheet, spread fishing nets hither and thither,
At the horizon towered luxuriant structures, rasping and scraping the tanned skies.
In them sit men,
Clad in laundered shirts with gators as sharp as a sword,
Their own nets their pens,
Their own canoes their air conditioned caves.
These I beheld, and in wonder my head I shook,
Who is more hard working I ask:
The tanning rustic fisherman on the lagoon,
Or the white collared monk in air conditioned caves?
Picture source: www.yqnow.comTweet