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Theater of Dreams
No joy compares the red sand
Rolling, jumping with the band
Dreaming the dreams while we stand
This was our zone, our own land
Where no man was in command
Everyone would understand
The man with the mic speaks first
The good, worst was a good bland.
The heavier the tide flows
The taller the surfer grows
Not every story is prose
Even the harsh landlord knows
The wall would fall, tell they Snows
Hasten thy feet, be compose
And gently strike the harp strings
Praise the Kings, and know their Rose.
Victor Oyedele
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