They seek to play the gong
With hands tied tightly to the cords –
Their lips must have seen some white shells
Harassing the tone of these comforting souls.
Blessed are their works before gods,
Crazy they are when sung as pop –
When gossips, like straws roof
Whistles blowing above bristles.
Behold the intensity with which so strong
They chase melodies like frauds
Out of the depths of sinking wells
To face commodores collecting tolls.
Watch them dance the agbaja
All night as the day spies behind this rock –
This feast cooked for the gods
Shall not rot, no! Not like thistles.
Oh, what dance shall be danced
For this great harvest relished
To sweats that rained on the ground
That cassava and maize may spring forth.
The songs – they minister very loud,
Tuning their voices to furnished
Keys marked on xylophones
Created before the invention of stoves.
A celebration to be remembered
In everlasting vicinities, shames all other
Treasonable efforts enforced by a racketeer
Whose name a reverend has interpreted.
No comments:
Post a Comment