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In fifty years if you’re not dead
Your restless feet will feel like lead
Those hands so versed in devious cunning
Will barely hold a cup each morning
You tune your ear to every sound
And sniff around like a heated hound
A day will find you nearly deaf
A distant shadow of yourself
Those wicked, darting, lustful eyes
Have led you down the aisle of lies
The wenches of all shapes and sizes
Will be far away when judgment arises
While some must strain for what to eat
You have the whole world at your feet
The crowd that surges at you to drool
Will someday turn to call you ‘fool’
Because you piled up tons of cash
You treat your wife like a piece of trash
Harvest will be in a day or two
Someone can’t wait to be rid of you
Fouled up words gush from your mouth
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Polluting the east, west, north and south
Someday you’ll crave for a little kind word
That now it seems you can ill afford
That hose that dangles betwixt your legs
Has crushed a legion of promising eggs
What was fitted for pleasurable laughter
Will soon only be fit for making water
A stitch in time they say saves nine
Spurning counsel put your life on the line
Two stitches will now mend the tear
With the potent glue of godly fear
Worm your way to where you were made
It has to be why you’re not yet dead
Dump your pride, face your fears
Bow to your Creator in penitent tears
The goat that craves to frolic loose
Will doubtless wind up in the noose
You owe the world at least one book
The account of one left off the hook
© Olugu Olugu Orji
