We love the fragrance of its entrails
When it is brought down and ripped
Open for table, under its thorny skin.
When fatso was sitting pretty pretty
On a bark , we had it put in thin veils
To stall bad eyes falling on its beauty.
Its hardened seeds play like marbles
On a road in street children’s holes.
The kids ,when done with their play
Stuff them in their burning choolah
Fires made in three stones, in smoke
That burnt their eyes so deliciously,
Seeds would taste nice and smoky.
Before death on our standing knife
It gave such a fine feeling to fingers
What a lovely touch , what comfort.
Death was fragrant and memorable.