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    You, daughter of Iyalode


    A gem amongst the beauties,


    Light skinned like the evening painting of the firmament But you have a "but".


    Your mother is Iyalode.


    Not that it is an offence to be an Iyalode


    But she gate-crashes every party


    As she packs Amala into her head-gear


    And tying soup at the edge of her wrapper,


    Not also forgetting to put the meat in between her breasts.


    From one party to another,


    Flying the same three pieces of Iro and Buba round the town, Slapping the sole face of the town round the clock All parties are known to be a store of only you.


    I love you Wuraola but marrying you?