BY GLORIA O’KOYE
If only these babies know what’s the cost
Of the path they are on.
Would decisions being solid
Override the tears from loved ones.
If these babies knew how legal aid
Would play with freedom.
Hit or miss
Crown and defense address each other as friends
Debriefing over recess and lunch breaks.
These babies would never be ready for the morgue.
Funeral procession, to preparation, dealing with estate after it all.
Even caskets built to be engulfed in flames
Cost grands,
Like money was meant to be burn away
Like forest fires within periods of false prosperity.
No empires are immune to the great fall.
These babies aren’t ready
Even Devils may cry.
The dawgs and demons will crumble overtime.
A lifestyle teeming with expiry dates
Only the wise
Sprinkled with luck,
Got a fighting chance to make it out
In one piece and alive
Courtrooms are throwing life sentences
The prison gates rejoice like Christmas gifts.
Yet behind the scenes there is tension.
Responsibility being passed down like hot coals
No one wants to take the collateral damage, once a death in custody gets pinned
Right to the point.
Graveyard making profits
So, both don’t want street beefs to resolve.
Social work is just the same
Wolves in sheep’s clothing,
Money is the root of it all.
