The hustler carrying his back pack
Walking along Ikeja, headed for the under-bridge
Profusely cursing the day he was born; what burnout!
His memory is as intact as the first day of his miserable life
Half the way, he dreams of the Burkingham
In fact, his passion way ahead of the Aso Rock
I am Tired of “Naija” of course “Jandon” must rock
The city of juice, booze and hams
Weary legs sweeping dust, just like his mouth, yearning dust
Like other hustlers he sways, like other hustlers he prays
“when will I reach the promised land?
Why has under-bridge prolonged thus far?”
He complains about “the bastards of the land”;
They ruined his life right from the start
His father died of much weed and his mother’s features creates no form to mind;
he never got to meet her all his life and now the thought of his misfortunes creates deformations
It is 9:00 pm and for more than twelve hours he had been roaming
Apparently no work to do or friend to see
The day has been just one mess in a reel
Another day and life has only been sulking
The hustler’s day is over
He has no report what ever
No family to call his own or answer
So he only lays his weary head to rest for the next blackout
