Baby, oh Baby,
Tell me something he did not do, your most imperative desire.
Should it be wrapped in fine ruby,or a silk of a fiery fire.
Say it to thou, purr,snip it if you don’t want all to know.
In that honey coated flow? Surely I would pull in double rounds the whole of Jericho.
But I need a favour from thine, just tell me will you let it all fall like raindrops into a life betrayed tin – making Kpangolo sounds.
Lady, my priceless Lady,
Our friends they call the chute,
Laughing jibe laced comicals,
While we sit abut, we can smell their burnt scheme, coated firmly in fruitless struggle.
Thou musn’t depict anxiety in block letters, my shield is tough enough for two.
Just please descry it to me, that raindrops wouldn’t fall into our rusty tin making Kpangolo sounds.
The night has worn a velvet dress, designed at the bodice with pale stars.
Right then would I standing rock-unshakable beside your frail and fragile side,
Soothing thy arms with precise prints,
Really, just this last time,
When the lands shall eat you deep,
Please dismiss my obnoxious doubt.
But for me, for you, for us…
Tell me, would you let your words, like raindrops in a tin denied life, just make fatuous kpangolo sounds?