When men talk about their wives
Under the influence of shots
Of alcohol or the locally made burukutu,
At joints or bars,
I’d like to think they are jobless.
When I hear them scorn the woman
They took to the altar,
I’d like to doubt if they were driven
By love when they said, “I do”
At the altar, if they actually did.
They scornfully describe
The sagged milkless breasts of their wives
And jest about how they’d knocked them
Down in bed, the night before…
Forgetting the fact that they were
Once fresh and somewhat spherical.
Yet, they cease not to overlook
The wagging buttocks of the bar woman.
Nor her figure eightive expression.