In this world there is none you may count upon,
Each man to himself is drawn
Living alone behind the wall of his Babylon
Just himself, nursing a hope of none.
We’re all strangers in this world,
Each man has his hand shut,
To others but opened only to his own dreamworld
Why? In-case his plans may be furled
Friends for-ever, hard to find
Easy to say, later stabbed in the behind
Everyone, individually defined
Each one with a countersign
Who would you befriend in the time of need
Who would care when you bleed
Such counsel I give thee-now, take heed.
Help thyself, or soon be autopsied.
author: Tokunbo Ajewole, February 13, 2000