A son of Adam
Who lives by the side of the rivulet

Virtue, his sobriquet ‘was’
SHE answers neither chief nor
Name of the crown he wear

Thought for his head-down
But the bird sing of his glory
Beneath pebbles, among teeths
Of wolves that musics ‘come o ye’

He reigned in glow-ries
And rained and rised like ray
He corn-throw the news
As the re-portals from his desk
Praises his bead and crown
From the Sahara around their wing
In thought… and as told to…

He killed the labourers
Of thirty dawns
In eight bundles
For a night during
His subject wore a jacket
Of help to clean
The rivulet’s drawer
Of spendable ‘trash’

The labourers are there
Like beggars like…
As limb in fore
Seems heavied by rock
Hand to mouth of unease

He, a holy slim liar
A makeup artist of routes
Working on car-rails
With the makeup like of ’etu’
Liar in the lair!

Do-let-us-see rolls in him
Voice of the great man
A gentle street kid
Euphemised as activist
Oh, acti-feast, indeed

A perfect liar with
A great look of
In his wardrobe

Lets me put a final dot here
For the guys from the Sahara
May be out there
The mighty watchmen/dog?!
That has a free-doom
Of saying just exactly
The truth he asks them say


Adhedhayor (tersemann)