A Passion I So Much Sighing For

Written by: kelechi Emeaba

A passion I so much sighing for, 
A gruelling journey'd on those 
rocky toe,
From the far east toftstead,
Held by  the Eurus in its lefthand,
The other with a stiletto, 
Whetstone on my head  
leftmost prop, 
If had lest it went blunt,
Fortnight in the months of 
octobers advent, Yearly calls for 
celebration ,Of new yarm 
festives,
rented air in its prohibitive 
rendition, 
To watch our men pound the 
earthing, 
With their broad heels a 
renaling, Through this lonely 
way a little boy groan, In close 
sift as the little old drown, 
Eftsoons the awl for the first 
notch, Standing men on their 
feet a deaths defying act, The 
proud and the greed for that 
yaks, A singer will sung the living 
out of themselves And wriggled    
their tongue for men to toggle, A 
cab driver'd mistook  wraiths for 
scholars, Poor minstrel with dirk 
in the bight of my hand, Had in 
time fretted the chief thumb like 
tongs, Fiddling its string up to 
my jugular.