THE OBITUARY

Little by little
Our reservoirs of knowledge are going dry
The parent deposits of great shedding
Are being explored and exploited
By bourgeoisie of selfish intent

One by one
Our repositories of knowledge
Are being enticed and persuaded
With matchless promise of perennial paradise
As they walk away from the ancient homes of sages

See as the dons dance
Day by day coveteously?
At the refined music of the new found lovers
Waving their never filled hands?
At their myopic and insensitive beloved

The migration is on the rise
As minute by minute
Many more dons contemplate
As epistles of irresistible offers
Lie seductively on their now less burdened  tables

Year by year
Many new lovers and prostitutes
Fill the streets and corners of learning
As many more griots 
Are lustfully away bound

Step by step this is on the increase
And I hope I will not be the one
To announce the dearth of sound learning
 In our tap rooted institutitions
Survived by mushroom graduates