Bou-gain-villea is plainly a vain villain
Her presence your approach eclipses, again and then,
And since you are here now bearing all these lights
They say Bou now sulks somewhere, sulfurously.
Our song, fresh corn just off Iwo farm,
Is multi multilayered, several lasting tastes to relish,
It rarely springs on one lane, many points begging budding:
We better launch now, our state holds the Sun in state.
Let us run beyond these dreary drums
Shackled Bata thundering only erroneous echoes
Noting nothing but nasty decibels that dull even drunken deities
Fools, who keep questioning their own stupor.
We will dance beyond this stage
Abandoned, littered patch, worthy home of flying profanities
The copious commotion cheap wine wrought and ran
Those nylons on ground do not hold water, you see
Something stickier got ladled therein by outcasts.
Let us stay here, Arewa
These pious pines tower guard just for us
Saving us from the blasphemous flame still raging
Burning victims’ skins, just under the killing point
We ve been saved too from the policing eyes
Of the nosy sky and its oozing range.
Our lung now savours the rush of untainted oxygen
If our nostrils jarringly break scent of jasmine
Can that jar of aroma be of our own secretion?
My sight has registered the path of exploded hormones
In your arms the madness beyond this paradise pales away
Yes, the mad world can just zoom to the pit.
With assured mastery, your palms ease away my storied worries
The touch of your breath sets these hairs on their toes
Now they know we have no need for their drunken dance steps,
Our chests rhythm borders vintage poetry, subtle yet profound
I love poetry, and so do you, it is the perfect sync of two souls.