Hard times hit with a loud bam,
Harried folks, not unlike a flotsam,
Swarm old Britannia’s grey shores
Other kinsfolk, scores upon scores,
Dark, rough-hewn, bid for Europe
They wager princely sums of the Euro
All in hopes of an El Dorado berth
Then they, by some austere footpath,
Trek across hot sands and cold trails,
Risking a vast desert imperium’s jails
Then huddled aboard a forlorn craft,
Our kinsfolk: packed from fore to aft
A little reminiscent of the enchained
Ancestors, who, in anguish, endured,
A passage to centuries-long servitude,
But alas, our kinsfolk bear with fortitude
Such choice as upon a free will settled
Not unlike a jetsam, they are storm-tossed,
Ahoy! A festering bedlam of rasping voices
Afloat. Bobbing. Up. Down. Rasping voices!
Tempting fate with a forlorn hope, literally!
If not doomed our kinsfolk, on Italia’s littoral,
Would be ready hands for a tomato crop!
Or, intercepted, be corralled into a coop.
By Roland Akosah