For Comfort herself
By Tikum Mbah Azonga
What really must I do to be herd?
Must I shout from the rooftops
Or kneel before the most high altar?
Must I first of all pray?
Does it really matter?
What happens now that I have a gagged mouth
And bound feet?
Although I am Comfort and not Hird
I do know about top of the pops
And above all, my alma matter
In my life, I have counted more than a sun's ray
Without ever having to batter
This beauty you proclaim is not from the south
It was simply imported in the last fleet.