Moshood Is a Gnome

I wasn’t Caesar but Oyo was my Rome. Though Nepa was an abuser, books lived on my foam. Dreams, oh lofty dreams, sadly against schemes from deadly teams. Bullets on a quiet night, unexpected extremes. Where we turned we were cut, our eyes were beams.

I grew up with a permanent smile on my face, mistaking enemies for blood while they planned to sting me. I drew up my life plans in their gaze, plotting to bud while they aimed to fling me. I bared my neck so they could put a lace, they put knife, I’m only alive by His grace. Where I called my base sadly wasn’t my space. I ran my dear, but they’re not ceasing to chase.

Damn, what is life about? I told my secrets to Sam but he turned out a lout. I took water to their drought, but I got a bout. The asshole calls himself an Imam, but he feasts on ham. I’ve sent telegrams to my dad, but I’m stuck in his spam. It’s not a sham, the cat is out. I have yams on the farm, someday they must sprout.

I am not Caesar but Oyo is my Rome. Life isn’t a pleaser, but I dream as I roam. My hair is my adviser, I’m done with a comb. I’ve had many teasers, but Moshood is a gnome. They broke Dolly’s wrist, Sucré broke his shoulder. But that’s God’s twist, our fate, He’s the moulder. Pop breathed foes from his balls, he knows as he sprawls. His legacy in the halls, he hears as it falls. But never worry pops, pure fellows are here. You gave birth to gods, we won’t disappear. Moshood is a gnome, Oyo is his home.

– Lord eBay (and his random ruminations, 2019)


4 Comments Add yours

  1. Sulola Imran says:



  2. modest28 says:

    Nice poem, I love your diction

    Liked by 1 person

  3. modest28 says:

    Thanks for following


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