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This nectar is so sweet,
Sweetened by lucre’s touch.
I can’t have enough
It almost makes me laugh
Who says I cannot compete
With the men in mundane affairs,
Though I don the pulpit’s attire
And I’m housed in the temple?
My buds know the taste of honey,
Made better when I add some money.
The pews and congregation?
You should ask with a little hesitation!
I am now the hunter, brother
But do your feet look like the deer’s?
I may shoot whatever goes on fours
I’m not drunk, but wiser, ha!
Bring in the tithes under my thighs
Money’s fragrance enlivens my soul.
Come thou hither and genuflect.
I too, can own a jet!
Don’t call me a criminal
Am I not your beloved priest?
I eat from the bowl maximal
I never leave the least.
meet the poet: Jonathan Ezeanochie
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