Sing-around-a-rosy.

Sing-around-a-rosy.
This Theater is full of roses.
singing a song of people…

Walking down the rails,
Sailing across the seas.

I hear an echo, It is a call,
A call from a mother
A mother of ideas,
and
curator of secrets,
Peopled by the natives of my origin
It is a call from my homeland.

Sing-around-a-mosey
this stage is full of mediocre

i dance to a rhythm
I hear an echo of other peoples
A people sucker of our pipes,
Seeker of our green grassy grounds
A people of humanity… NOT,
Who knows not humility,
With a heart of stone gold

I dance to a rhythm of a people
Whose sea chants babel
Audible echoes.
The celebrants of life
Even, of DEATH!

Sing-around-a-prosy.
This pond is full of proses.

One of the surfers of the earth wisdom.
I declare, I belong.
We write about the rite.
We create, they cry.
These feelings I get,
Disorderliness in man.
This allergy I have got.
Lairs, -mongers, foes and game people?

How do I move?
How do I dance?
How do I write?
And for WHY do I?

Sing-around-a-foxy.
This fund is flu that freezes.

I can’t dance. trapped all over.
Our patron, a couple of fresh blood-mongers.
our friends, a bunch of foes.
And I swear not to be a prey.
Why is man in here
Running after fiction?

I just need a stage to be seen.
Maybe I’m wrong.

Once again I’m out of my mind.
And this time I promise its over.

Sing-around-a-posy.
this dais is full of poses
we all fall down anyway!

I'm afraid,
i need someone to save me from me
perhaps i'm a cliché to me
for i feel i can be everything,
but inside of me
i hear a sad song singing it to me
that i am everything BUT a good song.

This lousy temperament
has woken the vultures from their den,
the sorcerers that seeks fresh blood
to endorse their faraway melodies.
i have seen the swift movement
of their gracious steps,
i am aware of these curious eyes,
looking out for me...

Sing-around-a-cosy.
This field is full of roses.

...and i cannot just close mine,
will it above my aspirations and
forget who i want to be,

i am at the borders of bearing
the burdens of my boyhood,
arrange them in order of preference,
for i can smell the dazzling odor
of the sun rays tenderly putting light
on my feet.

but with my index finger
pointed to the heavens,
i swear i want nothing...

and nothing to succeed me.
Sing-around-a-rosy.
This Theater is full of roses.

(c) Qudus Onikeku.