By Tikum Mbah Azonga
Where on earth are the yellow filaments?
I mean the dyed ones of old
I don’t mean the Yellow Submarine
No, that’s a thing of the past
Today there’s no more pop sound gas
And no more pent up mayhem men
Pining for the beauty queens they jilted.
If you’ve lost them, remember the commandments
Don’t forget the few who returned to the fold
The only regret is that they did so with no tambourines.
The filaments are the only memory from the past
So, like it or lump it, expect leaded gas.
If you weren’t a cuckolded hen
Why would you think my yellow filaments should be smelted
As if they ere some more Garoua Boulai iron ore?