
Dance Of Orisha
Sit, wine and dine.
Whistle to the tune of life.
Dance to the melody of strife.
Listen closely to the drums,
As they roll out deafening felicity.
In accordance,
We hum,
Silently,
Enjoying the starry beats
As his fingers descend on skin.
In all beauty,
Her hips sway,
Rythmically,
Displacing the “ileke idi” that hang loosely.
Blessing feasty-eyed men,
As they wonder at her vibrating butt cheeks.
Into the earth these men sink,
As they loose their selves,
Lost in a see of lust,
Drowning in a sea of lust.
Her breasts are stubborn.
Despite being imprisoned,
In the confines of an "ikọmu",
They seem to have feet of their own,
Dancing recklessly in the air,
They own,
The hearts of aroused men.
Her dance is seasoned,
One the blind would marvel at,
One that healed broken men,
For a moment.
Gracefully,
As she shook those buttocks,
They applauded themselves,
As only them could cause this much trouble.
Sending men into dark spaces,
As they blacked out from the hits
Of wives who couldn’t stand the idiocy,
Of their men.
Displeasing young boys,
As they were blinded by the palms of older siblings,
But they were never really blind,
As the flies found home in their mouths.
Gracefully,
She shook those buttocks,
Displacing the "ileke idi" that hang loosely,
In accordance,
We hum,
Silently,
Enjoying the starry beats,
Our gazes wandered scenefully,
And sinfully,
As his fingers descend on skin.
