If the sugarcoating
Of sugar isn't tasty as bee,
The waste from the use-in
Humming bees would make it be.
If the kinsmen are drunk
With gourds by them, like a soaked clay,
They have come in the sunk
Of greeting the faces stead the day.
Then if the sugar wears
Coat and hides behind the priest's cloth,
Do not think what he cares
Is oath, yet it is, of witch's troth.
Then if the sugar coyly smiles
To a wide mile that could convince,
Never forget his styles-
And Ablutions of the cat convince —
To the meat he wants to filch in the pot,
They could be sugar, we could be the pot.
Akinwale Peace Akindayo