Atia the tailor met a sailor
On a dreamy angry shore
He made his scissors his siren to call
The coiny pocket of the sailor who toured
He got what he wanted
And won the contract
Of an oldy tattered shirt
He cut away the hands in broad day
The sailor saw he was no tailor
And picked a stick to kick and kill
He fled and shed his treasured machine
And ended up a security at a school
Atia the security got the impunity
To sleep and let the robbers keep everything
He woke to a stick that broke his back
And fled forever to serve his wife
Being a man who craved for
Power over his woman,
Atia lived the rest of life
With his crooked head always bowed.
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) 2014
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