Under the oak tree,
Where the aching backs lie
Hearing the chirpings of the crickets,
As they sing out their melodious tunes.
Leading the night on her march.

Under the oak tree.          
The battling of hands display
As they show off their prowers
In the battle of “Dame”
The wisdom of the wise.

Under the oak tree
We commune with our calabashes
For they pour down our throat the true juice
The milk of )b)ade3
A communion of ancestors.

Under the oak tree
The beauty of the village lay
For the hearts of womanhood dwells there
Chating over the spell of )ware
The bringer of smiles.

Under the oak tree
The pulse of the village beats.
Sparkling fire into the village
Under the oak tree
My village dwells

The Haymaker © 2014