Child of a thousand fathers
The gloom that hunts the cradle
Breaker of mothers
By mischief of forces primordial
That is what I am
And my will is not swayed
By remonstrations of lesser beings

So when you conspire
With chalk besmirched men
To impose repulsive offerings
Eager to confound my pristine mind
To divulge secrets
Which anchor my soul
Desperate to tether my feet
To this sad sad country,
I do not curse you
For you are who you are
As I am what I am

So before your lures
Baited with palm oil and cowries
And goats and burnt palm trees
And shiny things
seep into my roots
To yoke them to this fouled land
And strip me of power
I take the high path
The quiet road home.