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Checkpoint There is always something formal Bout the barrel of a gun With its one-eyed coldness Which dares you to talk As your friendly policeman Prays you question his rudeness. When your protector-soldier Rearranges your dentition and Overfills your mouth with your tongue There is always something mutely formal About the butt of a gun. There is always something formal About the barrel of a gun When its long steel finger of caution Advises you to tip the officer Who supervises death on the roads. There is always something formal About the barrel of a gun When, with hot-leaded snout it coughs In admonition of your daring To argue with a policeman. There is always something final About the trigger of a gun. — Femi Fatoba
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