Thunder claps, water falls,
a little taste
of the gods’ wine,marrying and giving in marriage.
Follow the sunset
and bring back the sun.
The singsing cannot stop,
neither can it start;
the groom hasn’t woken up
from his sleep,
and the bride is just like every other woman
A little chest corrupts chaste.
The bride eloped
with Kefas, her childhood crush and kid-millionaire,
and left her high school sweetheart
She had one life, one chance, one opportunity
to wear the princess’ crown.
She got on a boat
and sailed for the rocky mountain.
Sadly, just as the devil hoped,
and she was kept in the palace
as a maid.
Who would’ve thought
she’d have eggs
but no balls
A kotkot’s nest lay waste
and we cannot court courts.
Kefas not only took Semwell,
he also pocketed the chief’s daughter
just as justice got just!
The law favours you,
when you have in-laws in law
but we have no law.
So we run here and there
rotten eggs among bird droppings,
and if by chance
we find one that so much as twitches
the hairs in our nose
we, with much fanfare,
take it back to the village.
We kill our fat pigs and fell our sugarcane.
We bathe it in coconut oil, clothe it in frangipani
and impregnate it in a sacred incense.
We make legends of it, deify and glorify it.
We give it a mouth and let it speak.
We listen and revel in the hope that it brings.
And when the full moon shines,
we turn it into a vestal –immaculate, indeflowerable–
and present it to the gods as a bride.
Yet the singsing never starts
because the groom never awakes,
and the bride elopes once more,
and we have to stick our fingers into bird droppings
again and again and again...
but the good thing is we always have wine.