Chances are we were hoodwinked on that gloomy rainy day
When we all stood in line for hours with our broken umbrellas
Abandoned our sick children in dilapidated sunken sick berths
And put our thumbs on tattered papers for elusive change
Chances are we all boarded some swindlers car
Driven by masked men whose profession is to manacle masses
And trade, sow, and usurp open opportunities of fear
To create escalating and increasing fear in all of us
Chances are that there was no real Boko Haram as sold
Chances are that there was no real bring-back-our-girls match as seen
Chances are that all were tinkered, tutored to further steal from us
The act that they have truely perfected through all apparatuses of power
Chances are we will continue to fall for them each time the bell jingles
We fall in line over again not knowing what we are falling in line for
We put our thumbs down to their deceitful, deranged symbols again
Just bamboozled, baffled by bags of rice and poor pieces of naira
Chances are we won't wash our eyes clean the next time
We will sidetrack our consciences and consciousness
And stroll to the pauperized pulverized polling stations
And vote the same old shameless men
Chances are we will never learn from our piloted past
A past that had drained our imaginations, images and being confused, contoured, constrained our way of life
And stationed, stopped, stuck us all in an immobile derailing demo-c-rats' disease
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