Highway Libation 

Four years from threescore Her shrine stinks still Littered with filthy chief priests Eating roasted yams with palm oil In an earthen pot.

The worshippers are crushed; They offer tip off sacrifices To appease the gods of the roads Who bathe their hands With foul on their warmth palms.

O gods of the highways! Sometimes clothed in black Sometimes clothed in green Sometimes clothed in blue All wolves in lamb's costume.

They stand where two roads meet They stand at t-junctions They stand at the centre Like the highway gents With barricade made of dead wo‎ods

They'll roar " park well...!" They'll order '...your papers!' They'll stretch hands for the expected The tipper comprehends He tips a usual note and zooms off.

But they'll goggle and roll the eyes Pointing finger on each symbol The tipper is tied to a stake If he tips not a note But his real papers.

But away the dirts are swept Off her roads In the hands of the unfair gods At dawn when the sponger appear So we'll emigrate to escape them.

Divramredje Lawrence Efeturi