Drunk men sat a table and 
tried to fix squares in round holes.
They crushed bulbs and place stumped candles in its stead.
Like maggots, they breed violence 
in tiny zillionths
And in stupor, spouts sulphur.

The Beautiful Ones are not yet born? They died as stillborns;
With their umbiblical cords strangling their belly and neck, 
And their heads, pelted into dust.
Like vultures, they prey on eagles
And place diamonds in carcass.

Come _Òré Mi_, how can we sober-
extirpate these orgy- wasted men?
How can this table be tidied of smokes and broken bottles? 
But I hear you say: 
Everything Good Will Come?
So shall it be.

© Ojo Hannah.

FUOYE.