To each guy his own penis...

To each guy his own penis;
To every girl, her pair.
This is not a post about sex,
Now why on earth would I go there?
Freaksho’s already done it; Aloofar’s shown off his dicks,
Nothing compared, I tell you, to blogsville’s crazy chicks.
Now to the matter at hand,
Shall we get ahead?
Something dey vex me and
My head is in a bend.

Why people too dey compare,
Why can’t we be content?
Some people too dey show themselves,
Others dey pretend
Sey dem no be who dey be,
Or sey dem hol’ too much
Others too dey yarn dia size,
Like sey e go win dem prize.

Ehen, does size really matter?
Is it guaranteed to please her?
Is it having sex or making love?
Don’t ask me, ask ibiluv!

I don’t have an opinion on everything,
So you can’t sue me.
I’m just rattling off some random thoughts;
E get as e dey do me.

I may not be Obama, but I'm getting me some attention!

That's right! The world must remember my name. Muhahaha! This week, I slip into the deep recesses of my mind, drawing out a me that's always been around, or some dude lurking in the dark, desperately trying to see the light of day. Today, he gets his wish! Ladies and gentlemen, behold Muse the canibal. Along with this, here are two poems: one dark (sorta), and the other, well just plain ol' me.

Enjoy.

Oh, and by the way, Obama rocks!

------------------------

The sons of men
In Abassi’s eyes
Lay naked
Under the noonday skies
Though they covered be
Through a mastered craft
That we do not see
For we have believed
And we now forget
What we really are
In Abassi’s eyes
We are sons of men
---------------------------

My soul is deep
And dark it is
My soul does weep
And gnash its teeth
For bitterness has eaten deep
Now brokenness and sorrow sit
Enthroned, rulers of a wretched being
Whose only hope of solace is
A fitless, eventless eternal sleep.

Shave my legs and call me grandma! ...otherwise known as wow!

The Nigerian music scene has got me dusting up my old dance moves, making me hop, step n twist like never before. Never mind that all these are happening in my head, ‘cos if truth be told, I can’t dance to save my life.

Thank God for Yahoozie! At least people like me can now lay hold on to a dance step – no matter how ridiculous.

Anyhoo, back to my initial line of thought. Omo boys dey hot like fire! I recently laid my hands on some tracks from the yet-to-be-released album (don’t ask me how) of some new dude called M.I, and man...um, man...well, he’s good. He’s got the rhymes, the attitude and the smarts to be 9ja’s next big rap star.

He’s not the only one.

There’s also this other chick called Nyore (fellas, I hear she’s hot!) who’s got me um...dancing (you know warramean). These group of new school artistes seem set to put Nigerian music on the world map, and like never before, I’m proud to be Nigerian!

But the guy that’s got me on a roll right now is that Benin bobo, Oriri! His album, Sisi Eko (which is also the title of his hit track) is off da hooooooooooook! I’m annoying my colleagues right now by playing his album over and over again! LOL!

Oh, and by the way, I started jogging. Yeah! Two days down the line, and I suddenly feel sympathetic towards the poor sods in the military that have to do this every morning. My joints ache like mad, and my thighs and calves feel like Samuel Peters took out his revenge on them. All because the lady doesn’t like the belly that much. What on earth happened to “I love you the way you are”?

Well, here’s a toast to the 9ja music scene, and wishing me speedy recovery (or woreva), cos as God is my witness, come tomorrow morning, I’m going jogging again!

Well, tie me up and call me a puppet.

AND NO! NO POEM TODAY. C’MON GUYS, EVERYDAY’S NOT A HOLIDAY (Asa...).

we who are about to die salute you...

Morituri te salutamus. You probably know this famous greeting ill-fated gladiators made to the Emperor, when he was gracious enough to bestow upon a fight, his presence. Not the most exciting thing to look forward to, I must say. But, hey, they had a job to do right?

In many ways, I feel like a gladiator.

Okay, make that one way. And believe me, it's not an easy way. You see, I'm a copywriter, and my job demands that I come up with creative ideas and strategies that sell whatever message, service or product my client wants to pass across to his Target Audience. It may seem fun at first, but when you get down to the nitty gritty, you get to understand that a lot of brain power goes into producing one single communication material (or ad). Well, then again, a lot of brain power is supposed to go into it.

Here lies my pain.

Today, a lot of the ads on the pages of the papers and on TV make me want to shoot myself. No, really! It seems everyone's doing a wam, bam, slap-it-on kinda job, thinking the rest of us humans out there suddenly developed the intelligence of mules. I mean, who on God's green earth approves the stuff called ads these days?! Who's the sucker that pays for them?

What does my ranting have to do with Russell Crowe and the other half clad men in leather? Nothing. Except for the fact that credible copywriters are fast becoming extinct, and are slowly being replaced by half-baked, 419ing, pretentious usurpers to the ad throne.

E dey pain me oh!

Where are the writers?! Stand up before someone runs us out of the scene, and we become, just like the gladiators, a people of past glory and fame.

We who are about to die salute you.

 

With tears that knew not whence they came,

And laughter that knew not why,

We fought to live, our rage to tame;

In truth we lived a lie;

Only to turn back and reclaim

With heaves and many a sigh;

In death we'll live past this wretched game

For while we live we die.

7/7/2005.