A young man of age
Whom I know through the door
Of my father’s hut
With the buttock window of your short
May be a mad Dog had raced
After you of late
Escaped only with a mouthful
Bite of your bottom
Giving your *** an access to
Free breeze.

Three days in a week
Not five as of the ‘oyinbos’
Being sassed to go European way
Gives us a stiffed neck
In our own father’s farm
European education for our
Father’s harvest
Being able to speak in slangs
To win oyinbos ‘divine’
Hand shake
‘How are you, village lad?’
‘Fine taku!’
Sored the white hand with
Mud
Going bear-footed to pay homage
To the hand that held him
Hostage
Bearing the decayed teeth to the white

Coming back home hopeful of
Rising to the highest celebration
And an apartment beside the
Queen’s.