The grey hairs of the village,

They regard themselves as sage.

With no shoulder pads,

Yet their shoulders is always high.

The 'profs' when it comes to knowledge,

Intoxicated by their acquired wisdom,

Always feeling high and over,

With the thoughts of being uncorrectable.

The youths and kids they trod upon,

"What did they know?" is always their song.

Always on the lookout for disciples to teach,

And not master to learn from.

Unluckily, it's not for them,

Their names are blotted out,

Of the list of salient knowledge beneficiaries,

Yet they care not.

They live with rage, because they are sage,

But the most important knowledge they lose to pride,

To us the youths, it's unveiled to,

But their pride kept them far from us.

To the kids and the humble adults,

Were given the key to mind-blowing treasures,

Maybe the so called sage will repent,

But till then, we control the world.

Òtáìbáyòmí