Different roads we thread to meet,
In the same ottoman we gather.
Have you seen the man
With the well shaped sapphire?
Hold he a golden walking stick?
He is a friend of the king
And a child of the people.
He is my crown!
Have you listened to him speak?
He wields his voice to silence fear,
Smiles to conquer anger
Yet, words that surmount.
Such he says at the tavern about me
To his peers in front of froths.
Wonder you why I glow!
Why market women greet me aloud,
Why virgins seek my prayers,
Why elders crave for water from my pot,
And lads my load bear home?
My crown is my pride.
Far be you headless women
Who seek gonads instead of beads.
Dance not with your bountiful nature,
No, not near my crown.
Free him not from my rum,
Keep him drunk with my spell.
His dowry let me pay.
Crown I need than he needs me.
©Benjamin Harrlett Bamidele