A son of time,
Infernal companion to Luci;
With no ‘fer’—less we stir this sea,
For which its drops, too small to pass for tea.
Where it goes, the devil, always shows his face;
Both goes about the place
In our world, all feared and loathed

A time, the witty—
Draws things in their proper frame
Searching his coffer…
For what gold tomorrow may offer.
And the fool?
That spiteful wretch,
Unshamed and up to no good—
Gives coloring to a tombstone somewhere
Where his slothfulness lends no ink here or anywhere

A perfect time to bed that bitch.
A death race to a faraway ditch,
Deeper than six feet,
You only find your foot,
Lying next to woman with all the beauty outside;
Fresh and fond of cheer;
Succulent, sensuous no jeer.
All the handsome gear, here and there
Yet she spoils your oil, with just a drop of water

When demons disturb men’s sleep,
And the thief is the only one abroad.
“On earth where he is lord and master,
There couldn’t be more rancour in disaster”
He goes about very little.
Yet in a moment’s notice
His life is stomped on, like a smoker’s spittle

A lover to the writer.
An art for which he cannot lose the lust,
It pays him the time to tell so much in no rush.
A faithful lover,
Whose warmth and wit;
Inspires Adichie, Somtoo and even Counsel
You can’t imagine all the wisdom it whispers and tell

God’s guard to us all,
A police for all mankind,
Who tries to escape the real journey, for which there’s no coin or garment.
There, there’s man, how he ought to be
There, he labours not for the honey or a bee
A party for the king and peasant

Eyes that beholds all,
Yet spits none.
It shields the priest and even the thief,
It holds all secrets for which daylight holds it in chief
The only witness to my tears.

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