We Got Robbed

thekingsscribe7@gmail.com (se7en Adeniyi) — 21, Jun 2026 21:36:17 +0100

The Good Life. Or is it?

A man somewhere had it all.
The good life.

A loving wife, whom he found easy to love and provide for.
Children, obedient, responsible, playful, beloved.
Cattle, Goats, Sheep: milk, venison, wool.
Chickens, Ducks, Horses, Dogs.
A garden to tend, and a farm to keep.
An entire human biosphere.

He had a father whose ways he’d learned:
just as he was a father, with time to spend,
loving and being loved by these little men,
dear children.

He had a faith.
A trust in God; daily met,
but never seen. GOD and Father of Yeshua the Christ;
a Father, as well, to him.

He drank from wells,
crystal clear living water.
And plucking an apple from the branch,
but wiped it on his fleece, afore taking a bite
— juice: wetting beard, staining shirt.

He had neighbors to help and work with.
Friends to kick back and share a laugh with.
Brothers to jovially harass; and with great relish,
Sisters to tease and prank.

He lived on land, allodial.
Land passed from fathers to sons
generations come and gone.
His heart, at rest.
Much to eat, lots to spare.
Rich. O, rich indeed.

Alas, every man is tested.
So, then came the devil.
Nay, a fellow with horns, is he not.
A wily-tongued bastard, was he.
His covetous eyes on the prize.

Your freedom.
Sovereign.
Peace.
Life.

He knew Mr. Adam was devout.
Cared little for naught without.
Big Christ-love hearted, was he.
So, he looked to ma, “Dame. "

With him, he’d brought a picture:
A picture with words, indeed,
is infinitely greater, it is,
than a picture on paper.
For the picture on paper, is set.
There’s another in it.

Another woman, not you.
Another.

But, of words,
the canvas is your mind
Freely flowing ink,
Not another in it, but you.
In your imagination, you can be queen
on the land, ruling;
in the sea; diving;
in the skies, soaring.

He told her she’d potential
“O what a sorry state you’re in.”
You could build a good life
in the beautiful new city.

Imagine, just imagine:
shopping in the stores,
walking down the aisles…
Dressed lovely,
In your fragrance, a hint of roses.
Picking fruit and veggies,
with daintily gloved hands.

Not scouring in a dank pantry
Not crawling the cabbage patch
Not chasing after chickens
Not milking cows that kick.

“Uh, I see great potential.
Such a sorry state you’re in. "

There’s so much more to the story,
I’ll let you fill it in,
Imagine, Imagine, Imagine.

So now, we have here Noel,
Adam’s son.
Son in the city.
A box-shaped house
in no way, unique.
One of many - rows of cells

A set time when he must leave
Out, goes his car, at 7:25
As does Joe’s
As does Mickey’s
As does James'
Every house, loses its Father, on schedule.
Like army or prison;
Of duty or woe?

Away Noel goes, to the manufacturing plant.
He hates his job, but does it anyway.
He didn’t read the fine print
The tiny details in the devil’s witchcraft,
that stole momma’s heart away —
to dream of prancing up and down the aisles: shopping…
Not chasing chickens; forking hay.

Easy-to-read text:	Fine-print
my very own piece of the city	Same as everyone else’s. Mass produced. Built disharmonious, unto decay.
picking groceries with dainty gloved hands	Nevermind what’s been put in the water to grow them, or if they’re from a lab. If you end up wasting away, slave to my pals at big-Pharma, it wasn’t me.
Milk delivered in glasses	From diseased, sickly cows? Milk and pus look the same. Not our fault.
My son in a big office	All that time spent away; making orphans of his sons. Their hearts, ours to break. Your pa, the world was his office. But here, a shiny sign on the desk. A shiny noose for your neck. Now, you’re a man. And your sons, just buy them a TV - we’ve got to program them somehow. Nevermind teaching them Pa’s values, you’re tired from work now.
No more working the land, grimy with dirt	This is currency. We made it up. It’s the new thing. What you really need. You’re nothing without big bucks. We’re generous. Give us your lands, everything you need is in the city. Here’s some shiny paper - its payment for your life.

Yet, some now reawaken
Longing for the land.
DIY a sprinter van,
make it a home.
A life powered; a life fed
by groceries from the aisle
picked with dainty fingers,
apple watch on her wrist.

Are they awake?
A multi-layered dream.
They showed you in “Inception. "
Whilst laughing to your face.

The way out is Salvation:
to die and be birthed again
He, named Neo, yet old and decaying
had to die, and be born again.
Born a citizen of Zion,
eyes open.

By Grace, are we saved.
Grace through Christ Jesus.
Jesus, means Salvation.

Amen.

Tracts on the KING's Scribe, 7

We Got Robbed