God is a cone, pistachio nut?
You flatter the deity roaming the streets of Lagos?
As you would the puddles of fish-town paradise
Sit a shape in the circle
Let’s find out who is as round as a ball
You spit dung
Are the chameleon’s wastes not spherical?
Yes they were like hanging ovaries
When I was but a gardener in those cities
No, they are not
Dust bin fertilizes a few fields
We know in my hometown
God is an egg
Are your farms birds that hatches the sublime shade?
Sphere you mean! Spheres are winds.
Now let’s run a test
Dip orphans into round baskets. What trade is that?
In the riverine, we call it barter
Barter is a fair exchange
Cyclical it goes on and on
So is the earth in the palm of a liege
Our primary possession, poor or rich
My journeys do not end.
Is it a nut in a shell too?
We are ended parts to this tale, if it is.
I have long thought so without
A proper use of my head
Which is an object for flattery too
Sing this to the round chiefs kicking gourds
In Aso, a city not far from hell
For hell too is a circle.
We call it a boiling cone.