IN THEIR POOL OF MENSURATION

The fury of the wind
Darts to the souls of our unborn.
It's silencing whistle deafened the gods.

The gods are not to be blamed
When our fathers' masquerades
Are called fattish and daughters dancing
Before them in their pool of mensuration.

An Iroko without a root
Is an illusion of an unknown parable;
When we mask in the spirit of Halloween,
Our fathers' skulls are kicked away
To watch in despair and disgrace.

The gods are not to be blamed
When our palm trees no longer produce.
With the fertility of our land's testicles,
A heavy flow of wine should come
After the mensuration rituals of planting.

Our palms are no longer fresh
And we've forgotten that palm wine tappers
Were noble men of the ancient tradition.

The liquor corked up inside
The white man's green mirror
Is a sensational killer.

We're proud men working in breweries and bars,
But we're yet to understand this;
Nothing is as beautiful as nature
Hence, let's go tap identity from our palm trees.

When you drink without pouring libation;
You ask without praising the spirits;
If spirits were once men,
Do to men what you will like them do unto you.

Let's go back to tap from our identity,
Let's mask our identity,
We're Afrikans.
We're proud black culture of creation.