The Golden Stool

The Golden Stool Offer me the sacrosanct golden stool To rest my bottom, Cursed! And of course abominable it is The Asantihene possesses it, I will rather then be banish from being; And become a bottomless bottoms A riddle riddled with contour, It is uncomfortable anyway, I will rather seat on an armchair Listening to the howling wind from Elmina; Telling stormy tales of the beginning, Of million sunk soul ancestors departed; In ocean-farer Columbus minute sail, Neither I examine buttocks of Homo- erectus With magnifying glasses, Nor listen to naked maidens cuddling calabash; Filled with soft breadfruits Strolling on marble tarmac roads, But to virgins with unripe chest mangoes; Dancing and queuing at my hut stepping, Listen to mothers mingling backed urchins Hoping in hope load of sacks; In uncountable mileage To dispose and bring back joy of cowries; Labouring farmer hue mounds in hectares, Rose in a grunt Nostalgically, looked hazily back and future; I must do a little bit more, more and more, Mounds, until I reach tip end of the earth; The hunegred yawns must be fill.