I was born with no silver spoon,
Or even a plate to call my own.
Hardwork beckons on me to come soon.
As I left my plate leaving my dog to feed on shrivelled bone.
I was born with no silver spoon.
But life continued serving penury on it grandiose plate.
Yet I still strived from when Sun rose till when its sibling arrive; the moon.
And my sweat, vast enough to fill a crate.
I was born with no silver spoon.
And hardship and scarcity were my first cousins.
But what could a man do to save himself from this impending doom?
Only to work under the scorching sun like a beast of burden.
I was born with no silver spoon.
Nor had I tasted the sweet succulent fruit called affluence.
Tied the knot? No? I hadn’t. Yet! with poverty, I spent my honeymoon.
And still I carried out my chores without any significant influence.
I was born with no silver spoon.
And now, golden spoons and cutlery are my new companions.
Although tales are still left unsaid of when adversaries attacked me in platoon.
Now, I have faced destitution in the face and I have won.
Adbulsobur Abdulazeez.
Preclinical Press.
