When I trod round these long green hairs
They neither hid nor exposed your things for jam
Cutlass and hoe are fame of old
Submit me my file to a dairy home
The blistered ball-breasts swing to meet the sky
And the bearers threaten with war their rights –
An allocation for their monopoly breasts
Otherwise the hanging rains of BIAFRA fall!
Now like a scorched orange gradually the breasts shrink
Yet our freezers reveal us a parody of milk-maids
If pride let us our cutlass and hoe
Lord of harvest!
Will harvest still be as fat as long ago?