 |
| AMERICA |
NEW ARRIVALS
Yankee Doodle came to town
Riding on a pony.
Caught a glimpse of silk stocking
And since ceased to be holy.
Yankee poodle came to town
In a cabriolet.
When he gently polished it,
Some took him for the valet.
Yankee Beadle came to town
From rural Alabama
To find clothes that had designers
And cost over a dollar.
Yankee Chukwu came to town
With a brand new visa.
How strange that every Nigerian
Is his brother or sister.
SELL
Ring the bell.
Sell a cell
or a Dell.
Prices fell.
Get your Gel.
Cool as hell.
Sound death knell,
pell-mell hustlers
to quell.
Tell how well.
Just do it!
Go on. Yell.
SAGUARO
When you leave the Yankee East and,
crossing the vast Middle, reach the American West,
the air gets drier, and the world
becomes roomier, dreamier.
The forest is called desert – Sonoran –
in spite of the oily bushes
of mesquite and agave and every cactus.
The kings are called saguaros.
They are tall and theatrical.
Some have arms on which you
could hang a sombrero, if you were a giant.
Some just like to pose, pole-like,
in the colourful sunrise.
One has two perfectly-formed breasts.
If you lived here you would worship
these beings too.
I had only one week to experience
This so-called South West.
The walks in the heat avoiding jumping-cholla stings,
followed by nights joking, huddled around a fire.
The repeating tunes of mariachi music
while we ate pricey cow flanks
with fresh guacamole and salsa
on warm tortillas, at a lunch meeting.
If you know the good life,
I was tasting it.
Miles and miles away from Plymouth
I felt nothing of the pioneer’s excitement.
I was a voyeur, an outsider.
The good life was so bland, I longed for home.
Home was nowhere, only there. Only ahead,
further west, it seemed,
where the Fellowship called.
Lucky me. Lucky me.
The world was roomier, scarier.
I was nineteen and tasting it.
I followed the thread, did not draw back.
I did not note the day when the fall began.
Perhaps there in the desert,
whilst I laughed among new friends
as they composed
The Ballad of John Loser.
Or was it later, nearby the Pacific coast
where each person was a pole,
striving to reach the sun, and not one
cared about the booby saguaro?
Was it with a blow to the head
or was it with a stab to the heart
in the land of the palos,
where breasts and milk don’t matter?
Damn your striation and keep your dendritus.
We don’t measure prickliness or pollination.
We’re only poles; going upward, sunward.
When a saguaro dies
how long do you think it takes
for him to notice the trauma;
Till the once-fresh, green trunk
is cowed, finally horizontal,
forming a spindly wooden basket?
In death, for the first time,
the gods have better things to do
than polish his trunk and colour his fruit.
Now he has to work for everything.
Still, there is enough to live –
to spread some seed, to shine,
to pose for the tourist’s camera,
to stand an inch taller.
Perhaps more life lies ahead
than before the wound.
But now he has to work for everything
in a war against the clock
tick-tock-tick-tock.
THE BALLAD OF JOHN LOSER
By Christian Larson and Patrick Keelan
there once was a man from germany
who came to the desert across the sea
he came to build and stake his claim
but ellis island changed his name
old man losser called him johann
at age 18 young losser was gone
the work of an immigrant made him a boozer
this is the story of young john loser
he went out west to build a dam
had a harrowing journey across that land
johnny developed a fear of heights
up on the dam while driving in spikes
he strongly feared that one day he'd plummet
from high upon the concrete summit
the work of an immigrant made him a boozer
this is the ballad of mister john loser
after the suds of a warm summer's night
young johnny struck out for his humble job site
his coat he'd forgotten out on the ledge
and johnny stumbled too close to the edge
with a slip on some grease and a clench of his teeth
johnny realized work was done for the week
the work of an immigrant made him a boozer
this is the ballad of worker john loser
with nothing to help him, no one at all
the jumping chollas barely slowed his fall
cursing and flailing he drunkenly flew
johann's worst fears had finally come true
let us remember this sorrowful day
when young johann losser passed away
the work of an immigrant made him a boozer
this was the ending of ol' johnny loser
so now we are gathered to pay our respects
and raise up a round of what johnny liked best
if you're ever on the roosevelt dam trail
find johnny's headstone and give it a hail
johann losser was a good german man
he worked real hard but he still kicked the can
he met his demise from being a boozer
this was the ballad of beloved john loser
TRAVELLING STUDENTS EVERYWHERE
Nutella is spread
by travelling students everywhere.
In France’s Ee-Oh-Pay, it is
cheap food – pain’o’shit.
Near Cairo’s Ay-You-See, it’s
expensive. Imported, but
goes well with aish baladee.
Wisdom is yours for the taking –
travelling students everywhere.
Bill went east to Russia
from Oxford – the real Oxford.
Palin didn’t need to,
enter Russia, I mean.
It’s cold in Alaska too.
Nutella is spread
by travelling students everywhere
and a hundred adorers
of the travelling youngster Nadal.
Now, as in Bill’s day,
the world is convulsing.
Why hope, even?
BOY MEETS GIRL
Bouncing, shouting, rapping,
Burning calories is where it’s at.
Letting off steam, feeling some skin,
Reaching a.m. really unclean.
Cats up in the club at ten –
We boys and girls unlimited.
Crazy, sweating, chanting –
A dream team uninhibited.
Fly girls, dressed to please
Flaunt it: got it or boost it,
Like: How are you, cute pair of
Surgically enhanced beans?
Midnight at the candy store
It’s all in here and even more
On my lap, bump my back…
Sipping, grinding, men – she’s dozing.
Won’t be long now till the score
Getting friendly. Friendli-er.
Foreplay’s quick. I’ll taste her lips
Then straight for the candy wine.
Life is good, very good
Every weekend with friends.
Heaven must be just like this
Or stay my dead ass right here.
Live forever in Greektown
With these clowns – that’s spiritual,
It’s art, love, happy – whoa –
It’s ecstasy in bed with her.
Dis lady grown – luck of the draw –
So no lousy posse.
I’m feeling it, she’s half asleep.
I like her dress, she’s one to keep.
SPIDER SOCIETY
The spider’s idea of financial planning
If you’ve ever watched, ain’t exactly spinning;
The web-making motion is somewhat obscene –
More human than arachnid, if you know what I mean.
The Union’s idea of financial planning
Is part war, part human imports spinning
After a dream. A dream – the pixie engine
In Manhattan is Ponzi. You know what I mean.
The masseur’s idea of financial planning:
Royal housewives around his fingers spinning.
The bevy returns for its happy ending.
His dream – a dream – Pre-nup! You know what I mean.
CENTURY NEXT
Belief in hardwork
Is for peasants and incompetents.
Peasants face hunger.
The good work harder; disease is their friend.
Now hunger died
Hardwork brings disease; I am not your friend.
Incompetent, dancing,
With less holiday than any chained monkey.
But the boss once
Shat olive-green into white towel nappies.
Lazy doo-doo-washer
Hated the stink, hence Huggies and Pampers.
Next chapter: Friends
Yalla! Table of Contents
Previous chapter: Nigeria
Buy Yalla! by Tosin Otitoju at amazon.com
Click here for more books by the same author. Click here for facebook fan club.
