Tuesday 27 November 2012

MYTH OF MY CHILDHOOD

There is a myth that was told since I was born
The myth that gladdens my heart when I was young
The myth of where I came from, and where I belong
The myth of our fathers
Of who takes over when they are gone
The fallacy that left us shattered
The truth that doesn’t matter
The colors they painted with their palette
The path they treated as a scarlet.

When I was young father once told me to be strong
That one day to the top I belong
My teacher mantra me ‘leader of tomorrow’
Perhaps they said these to wipe away my sorrow.
But seems tomorrow never come
Or maybe I’m just forever young.
Though I can haul and urge them no more
No more can I endure to bear their brunt
Its dawn but the cocks still don’t crow
Ticking of time but our infants still don’t grow
Days roll into months, months into years
Our drumming rain turns lazy dew in the ears
While our waving sun changes to sleeping moon.
Our well is running dry, metamorphosed into a stony pit
Surrounded by dancing leafs
From the leafy branches of a sheltering tree
In the still of the night, our fathers stole away our right
Rotating and revolving in selfish pride
They raped her and left the groom with no bride
The rulers I know are still ruling
While tomorrows leader are trapped in their childhood myth looking

The myth of my childhood
The myth that rips me off my manhood
The Ecstasy that bind us
The love that blind us
Lying on my mothers chest
Sucking on my fathers breast
My lips on his hard on nipples
Excitement spread in like ripples
Federal character a wailing abracadabra
A predicament sweet as venom, the treasure stolen in billion
We seek freedom from the rulers of this kingdom
They using us to rise to stardom, while our lives abandoned.
Sing it in their ears that again she’s in her period of Ovulation
Sing it all through the nation, on Tv and every radio station
As we the youth are set on edge, for an un-ending Revolution.


Yommybishop……………©November2012

Friday 10 August 2012

The Eagles Eye


I see placards everywhere, in the first week of the year
I see them on the street
Walking in the sun on bare feet.
I see them in the market place
Whispering to the neighbor selling lace.
I see them on their mama’s back
Strapped with a wrapper around her chest
I see them with tie on their necks
Rushing to sit on their busy desks
Trying to give it their best
Yet their mind is never at rest.
I see them in their place of worship
Making their Priest and Imam their Lordship
I see them profuse and confused
Their attention hijacked and diffused.
I see them peeping through their little windows
Women afraid another bomb blast can make them widows.
I see tears in their eyes, falling like rain drops from the sky
I see Babylonian in Zion, striking hot the cold iron
Tearing down flesh like a hungry lion
Actualizing their evil plans of eon
I see fear on people’s faces
Scared to go to rowdy places
I see them walk home in pace
Cus the authority has since abandoned their case.
As the evil try to open up can of worms
The government thinks it’s just a storm in a tea cup
But the people are terrified by war songs
Singing yet biting their sour tongues.

I see their leaders as the highest bidder.
The so called senators are nothing but a bunch of predators
I see them in the lower chamber
Throwing words at each other with hot temper
Assembled in the ad hoc house,
Just to taste the cheese like Mickey Mouse
They are making policies for us to see
But their minds are corrupt, waiting to launder money over seas
Not the EFCC or ICPC can stop them
Cus they are agencies too blind to see them.
We are being given concoction for abortion
Investigation is their language in ugly situations
What else could it be but corruption
They are all crooks; even the few with integrity are disappointing
Don’t ask how, just ask Farouk.

I heard him say he has no shoes.
Shoes are not working tools, so tell him we are no fools.
I wish to put it all in my gazette,
But he has since refused to declare his assets
Acting funny, showing off his flat and ugly biceps
Eating cassava bread with no license.
He shed crocodile tears when humans are sacrificed
I don’t know what to say, but his tears are insignificant
The last time I heard, two birds dropped from the sky
The first ran into a moving van leaving some dead in Ghana
The second fell in our neighborhood, her name was Dana
Leaving cloud of dust and thick smoke in the air
Dead bodies are found lying everywhere.
In the north, everyday homes are destroyed
To the grave, great destinies are deployed.
All this I see through the eye of an Eagle
We need to redeem the days cus it’s full of evil.
I see Babylonian in Zion,
Tearing down flesh like a hungry lion
I see hustling and bustling in fear
In see a government that doesn’t care
They are serving us concoction for abortion
Corruption has eaten deep into our dear Nation
Give us light, good roads and water,
The youths need jobs, tired of eating bread and butter.
We need security, let the killing stop
Tell it loud; tell it to the man on top.

Yommybishop………
©July 2012                                                                               

My Worst Blow Job




I didn’t mean to do it
Am shaking and my fist is clenching
I’m biting as my lips got swollen
My mind is racing and profusely I’m sweating
Excitement jerks inside as fear ejaculates outside
I didn’t mean to come this quick
But I kept hearing them calling
Making sure am not in any way stalling
I see the surprise in her eyes
Looking at me strangely as I pray to the sky
Stream of memories flows to mind
Memories of the world which I became blind.

I didn’t mean to drop it
Not this quick, especially when I wish I could stop it.
I remember coming in from behind
Moving in slowly like a gentle man’s kite
Not in a rush, trying to be kind
But my music reached crescendo just in time
Lunching myself into the crowd
The situation is about to climax
As my soul is already taking into cloud.
When it’s coming down my face wears a frown
But I was told at the end lies my winning crown.
When it’s ending my spirit keeps bending
Going back to how I began my lonely journey
But now I’m asked to end it, taking along with me so many
My duty is to do the job of who sent me
The sect that made and the belief that bend me.

I didn’t mean to do it.
But I was told it will be my gate pass to glory
And only this act can make me holy.
Fighting a battle for my creator
Turning me into a blood sucking predator
My conscience sold out, waiting for me to blow out
Strapped around me are cans of explosives
Meant to run into the camp of the offensives
Killing infidels is our major agenda
And those not following the Islamic calendar.

Before now, I drop polythene in rowdy junctions
But now I’m meant to ram myself into their holy functions
This will be my last and worst blow job
Cos after this you will hear of me no more
I’m just a victim, out of the main stream
A pawn piece in the hand of the devil
Tell this to her grief as I take my leave
I didn’t meant for her to be bereaved
This is my worst blow job
An evil act we need to stop.

Yommybishop………©August 2012.

(A peep into the mind of a Terrorist, an innocent Boko Haram).


Tuesday 8 May 2012

The Preacher's Son


I am the preacher’s son and am here to blow the horn,
into this world I was born so to make it under the sun.
I was raised through my Mama’s cane so I can have a moral brain,
I was taught to read and write so I can know my wrong from right,
I was given the mother care so I can know how to love and share.
I was never pampered but always in the kitchen with her to prepare.
I am the chosen one so I take care of my younger ones.
I am the preacher’s son but sometimes they call me the teacher’s boy.

I am the preacher’s son and am here to propagate the gospel,
my father thought me through the epistles but am here to write my Chronicles.
 People refer to me as a bad boy but isn’t that ironical,
they judge me with what they see & not even being cynical.
Though I hang out with rude boys that see life as a game of toy
cus that’s what give’s them joy but mine is a different ploy,cus am just catching my fun.
We drink we party & do a lot of night crawl, we gist, laugh & take it to the brawl.
i was involved in everything but never addicted to anything.
But often I heard the voice of my Dad saying:
"My son if sinners entice thee consent thou not,
Remember a good name is rather to be chosen than silver and gold."
I'm the preacher’s son a bad boy with conscience, I never do it all am just entertaining my audience.

I am a preacher’s son and I love singing love song,
to the entire beautiful girls in the house especially the ones that play along.
I have an eye for good things that’s why I keep it real and do the strong thing,
I preach the gospel that goes according to St. John, 
I'm fresh & clean ladies love me when I put on sean john,
they feel me like teaser, they always want to eat me up like pizza,
I'm the preacher’s son so I give it to them like hot suya.
But mostly I hear my Mama’s voice saying;
"My son, the son of my womb, the son of my vows, give not thy strength unto women, nor thy ways to that which destroyeth kings". Remember you are the preacher’s son, you are a Kingship material.

I am the preacher’s son my father taught me to shielt my sword,
to live in peace with all and never to shed their blood.
Even at war he told me rather to use the word which is a stronger weapon and sharper than any two edged sword.
He taught me to kneel and pray in times of despair, 
and every time I call my life he repairs,
he guide me through in my several travail, he makes me win and makes me prevail.

Truly I'm a preacher’s son and my mother is a deaconess,
I'm the first born so they made me the leader of the youth witness.
Then I was young and vibrant I never had the heart of a tyrant,
I was once a drummer boy in my local church, I play also the keyboard and sing our local songs.
I was once the Drama cord in my school fellowship though I rarely acted but I always held on to the clapper board.
I have a church mind and i hope you don't mind
I'm the vessel in his hand the project in his palm.

So to all my friends this note I write, for you to really know me and judge me aright.
Be careful how you read me or else you misread me,
I'm not the bad boy you are thinking even though I hang out with the gangs, pimp & king pin, 
I'm not that tough boy you see even though my face look so hard & keen,
I'm just quiet and gentle, reserved and simple, I pursue through my dream in life without a wrinkle.
I am never the son of the soil but the son anointed with oil.
I am the preacher’s son; my name is Fatoyinbo Abayomi Oluwadamilola Bishop
this is my chronicle, I will never go out of the preacher's voice.

ON MY PERIOD……



I woke up this morning feeling so heavy
Like a warship coming with a thousand navy
I heard the sound of a flying black raven
I felt the sunlight shinning on me from heaven.
I watched the wall clock tick
My eyes so fix, I don’t want to blink.
I stood to realize am so weak
My feet can’t move my mouth won’t speak.
I knew it deep inside that am not sick
I felt a rush over me like a freak
I smiled as I held on to my fist
It’s again that period of the week.

I’m on my period, am not ashamed to speak
Even though it rains with a red beat
And it drains like a lemon squeezed
It comes from me naturally
And end up in me emotionally.
Like a red wine so sweet to savor
So my period comes with good flavor
It’s the best time I have to myself
It’s the time I make use of the books on my shelf
It’s the time my muse comes to help
And my eyes always turn to red.
It’s the time to show my prowess
The time to use my pad.

All I need is a pad and a pen
It’s another period to write a poem.
A period to talk about the blood
The blood that rush and gush
The blood that gush to wash
No one could have loved me this much.
A wondrous beauty I see
What a wonderful world it would be.
Stained with blood so divine
Was an old cross that took the sin of mine
An emblem of sin and shame
For me the Lamb of God bear it all on Calvary aim
To bring me back to glory
My shame & reproach he gladly bears
He suffered and died, not just a story
He resurrected for me to be there.


So will I cherish & cling to the cross on my kneels down
Knowing I will exchange it someday for a glorious crown.
That I may know him & the power of his resurrection
And the fellowship of his suffering
Being made conformable unto his death.
Cos without the cross, there is no blood
Without the blood, there will be no death
Without death, there will be no resurrection
Without resurrection there will be no me
And without me, there will be no such period.
A period to use my pad,
A period to use my pen,
A period to write a poem.



© Yommy Bishop……….