I got a dirge stuck on my head

And it is not a happy feeling

A thousand mourners marching through the lines ,

On the cornrows my mother painstakingly made.

Of wool from the from the akwete weavers

Who weaved gay palmfronds on a happy soil.

And royals having their elephant ride.

And the great blacksmiths of eri, the proud craftsmen of old.

Giving ancient orders that the iron obeys.

The land was happy and rich and proud.

But now it hides its head in shame.

The akwete weavers now dye their wool in blood.

Well the indigo wells did dry up and the rivers stopped.

And the blackmiths fire is covered in ash.

Little wonder this dirge remains unstuck,

And the mourners won’t give up their perpetual march,

On the cornrows my mother painstakingly made.