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GOD DEY *

When I trek with daily rain
To find work or sweet life,
Guardsmen with dogs reign;
Making morning every night.

Where the mouth for food?
Like na only me yawn alone.
Bad laughs and us go good?
I can not stay to boil stone.

Whether life better, money stay;
Owners fold their own mats.
Tomorrow can mirror today
And patience never does lasts.

Families’ eyes pour its pains,
Daily need’s shame they pray.
Yet they wake with last grains,
Again their faith says God dey!

MOST LOST

Who says we are most alone
When we are with the most?
And all alone with its none;
Enjoying life at its own worst?

Attempting to be on our own
We had often found its cost;
Sought glories for the stone
And won prizes we had all lost.

TEARS

Boiling pots let off steam,
Pressured heat sweats a beam.
Merrily down a peopled stream,
Tears must decimate life’s film.

SO?

Let us play a game of trading places,
Pausing triggers of mud slinging tongues.
Viewing with glasses that mirror chances,
We’ll find all toes fit the shoes it belongs.

BREEDS

The mind eats, then it sleeps.
Where it sits, there it breeds.
Then it would end and cease,
Leave in hope for some peace.
Still this life ever only breeds,
If what it learns today it heeds.

SWINE

Who makes the most noise
And is as dirty in his poise?
Who soils his needs as toys
And spoils all his ego hoist?

KISHIYA / MATE #

Haka ta che,
“Wa ni da duk mache,
Kishiya ta ta fi ni.
Ko ya ta yi da shi, da ni?
Ko de na kasa,
Har ya sa ya fasa?
Ko ya zaka fasara,
Kishi ne, ko duniya na maza?”

So she said to I,
“To all women as I,
My mate is better than I,
What did she do to him and I?
Or had I failed him as I,
To make him withdraw from I?
How else do you interpret to I,
It’s envy or it’s all male to I?”

FEVER

Through eventful years the sticks ever pile,
Hopes with the trunk that vomits emptiness.
The mighty broom swept so long a mile,
Still dirt abounds as its proud fruitfulness.
Mourning tears leave this feeling of numbness.

Eras of evolution has not changed the egg,
The needs of man same and ever will be so.
Maybe a broom will kill lizards on a clay keg
And not break it too like the stick did before.
In this concoction only soluble particles’ temperatures soar.

Promise of the lands are all pointing,
Yet the future is hot food in the mouth.
Bodies buried and alive, had and are, waited and waiting,
For the joy in swallowing and satisfaction they sought.
Over hard filled years waiters without appetite rot.

The dogs in this story are the traitorous pigs,
Their patriotism is fake like sweeping grains with a rake.
Locusts that plunder the field leaving tiny dry twigs,
Their determined whispers stir reasoning ideally fake;
These dishonourable gentle heads that ache.

The locusts ate the grains, the rake wasted the rest.
The broom was left so little in its fold.
In this farm, pigs serve dogs for it’s their best.
The egg will likely shatter in hands that shouldn’t hold.
They chest indifferently the agony of the rest in the cold.

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