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In the fold of old
I found myself cold
Cold from the load of needs
Needs that being old doesn’t stop
Pots I heard almost as a wispher
From ear to ear I searched endless
Never stopped even from year to year
Each year it sounded lounder
P. O. T. S it rang on
And now it seems to never stop
Heat from the burning sun
Literally seems to set me on fire
Hot it felt for all I touched
Then news of a shining pot
Reached the coast of Gold
So bold I played a lot with my lot
To make a gain for that pot
For I sought to please my desire
For nights I dreamt of not just a pot
For what use is a pot without lot
So I dreamt some more
With open eyes and the shinning sun
I dreamt of hitting my Pot of Gold on the sands of Gold Coast
So day on day I gather gold bars
Gold bars formed from my very sweat
For each day’s labour is a gold mine
Until the day that my pot is filled
So it shines brighter than the Sun
This pot of gold Will dwell years
After I have passed on to unknown
For I seek a legacy of generations That will forever be remembered
And boldly imprinted on the Sands of time
By Elvis Kyere
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