By Chinedu Agu
They sweep to court in flowing thread,
With heavy books and learned head,
Their voices grave, their faces cool,
Yet some belong not to the Bench, but Stool.
They speak of law with solemn air,
As though pure justice seated there,
But when their rulings reek of greed,
The mask slips off and shows the deed.
A Bench is where the upright sit,
Where wisdom, truth, and law are fit,
A place for minds both firm and fair,
Not bought by bribe nor bent by fear.
A Bench is meant for those who stand
With cleanest heart and steadiest hand,
Who fear no king, obey no purse,
And will not make the nation worse.
But there are some, in robe and chain,
Who turn the law to private gain,
Who dine with thieves, then rise to rule,
These are the Members of the Stool.
They dress corruption up in lace,
And give injustice legal face,
They jail the weak, protect the strong,
Then write long judgments to mask the wrong.
They twist the facts, distort the scale,
And help the truth itself to fail,
They call it law, they call it right,
While strangling justice in broad daylight.
They wink at fraud, they bless deceit,
They trample votes beneath their feet,
Then from the comfort of their stool,
Pronounce the nation calm and cool.
Now hear the link, both sharp and plain,
Between the two we rightly name:
There is a stool on which men sit,
And stool the body passes out of it.
One stool supports the human frame,
The other brings disgust and shame,
But when corrupt men mount the throne,
Too often both are fused in one.
For some sit down on stool to judge,
Then stool out rulings soaked in sludge,
They empty filth on rights and votes,
Then hide the stench in learned notes.
They sit on stool, then stool while sitting,
And call the odour precedent.
They dump on rights, on votes, on justice,
Then ask us all to call it scent.
They stool out orders in the night,
Against the weak, against the right,
And when the people cry, “This is foul!”
They answer back with legal growl.
There are some who, for promised rise,
Will lock up truth before men’s eyes,
Remand the weak in prison to please the State,
Then, dream of higher seat and fate.
They trade their oath for borrowed tool,
Those are Members of the Stool.
And some, when liberty seeks breath,
Will hand it over still to death,
Refuse fair bail when power calls,
Or sign detention from police halls.
Where bribe and fear the gavel rule,
Such hands belong not Bench, but Stool.
Their judgments drop like soiled disgrace,
They splash upon the public face,
And every page they proudly sign
Smells less like law, more like decline.
That is why Bench and Stool divide,
Though both may serve as seats of pride,
A Bench lifts honour, strength, and school,
A Stool collects the body’s stool.
A Bench is hard because it trains
The back to bear the law’s demands,
It teaches balance, poise, and grace,
And does not stink up every place.
A Stool is lower, easier, small,
It asks for little spine at all,
And suits the man who likes to bend,
To crawl for favour, scrape, and send.
