Many are they on this street
showing off their peacocked
feathers yet still scavenge for
what the belly would feast on.
Their loaned fopperies they
display like beggars’ wares
with no sane being to purchase
as they wander day and night.
Their wealths die swiftly on
their tongues like a sour soup
kept for a long period of time since
money had unfollowed the cook.
Wits can they not boast of
but that which they flaunt:
clumsy cleavages and livid laps
bought them the fame they wanted.
Wrinkles await your powdered face.
Till then, keep basking in the
euphoria of being a celebrated e- diot
The world that hail now will hate later.
Bard Tosin Morakinyo