May Leopards not feast on Eagles on this charged and chosen day, When Africa gathers once more at destiny’s trembling gateway.
Here, beneath November’s burning sky and the whisper of fate, Two nations rise—hearts drumming, dreams awake, spirits innate.
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The Leopards of Congo stalk with quiet, dangerous grace,
Eyes lit like embers, fierce purpose etched upon each face.
Claws sharpened by ambition, steps echoing ancient lore.
They advance like phantoms, steady, hungry, eager for score.
But behold the Super Eagles—storm riders, children of the wind,
Wings sculpted from courage, wills unbroken, wired to ascend.
They climb the heavens with a warrior’s poise and steel,
Carrying the promise of thunder in each wingbeat they reveal.
Grant us this day, O gods who script miracles upon the grass,
A tale where Nigeria’s fire endures, refusing ever to pass;
Where green-white-green unfurls like prayer smoke in the sky,
And hope rises where old doubts once dared to lie.
For one final cherry glows upon football’s towering tree,
A lone golden fruit—World Cup destiny’s master key.
Let it be plucked by the brave, the chosen, the unafraid,
Those whose dreams march boldly into the light unshaded.
So may Leopards not consume Eagles in this twilight of fate;
Let the winds lift wings, not favour the prowling gait.
Tonight, before millions whose belief will never tire,
Nigeria hunts history—refusing to leave without its desire.
Let the fruit be taken, carried beyond oceans and plains,
Moved toward Mexico, where the feast of glory remains
A prelude to triumphs waiting in America’s and Canada’s embrace,
As the Eagles soar onward, untouched by Leopard chase.
