The Hallowed Black Pot Poem by Valentine Ezike

Passed by Aso the other day;
The hilly enclave in the midst of the three towns,
And witnessed the dance of the money bags.
Clad in robes of greed and lucre,
They twist their portly midriffs to the wanton beats,
Like beasts possessed by insane rage,
Bound in love by a common pot.

At intervals chosen in their imperial wisdom,
They pause to select a new song,
And with it a fresh dance step;
But whatever song they chose,
Had the same meaningless lyrics as the one before,
And equally pointless bizarre dance steps,
As frenetic and macabre as the one that went before it.

In the midst stood the chief priest,
In times past chubby and portly; in present time lanky and fair,
Whose duty it is to initiate the dance steps,
A task he sets to with joyous abandon.
For which among his allies would a protest venture?
Enthralled as they were with the magic of the pot,
To which they are bound even to death.

At times they danced with such abandonment
That their glittering apparels come off,
Baring their romps to the onlookers.
Yet they carried on unmindful of the calls and jeers,
Apparently dead to the criticism of the world around,
Like fanatics clinging to their common trust,
In the hallowed common pot set in the midst.

From this common dark pot they frequently drank,
Often in a stampede wildebeests would envy,
With mortal combats breaking out here and there;
Many in their numbers being bloodied and wounded,
As they charge like testosterone-fueled bulls,
On the sniff of a ready and willing mate,
To the lure and crave of the hallowed common pot.

The onlookers who gather watch with contempt and disdain;
Not a few making known their angst,
At how brazen wanton folly is displayed by supposed men of honour.
But a most curious transformation you behold,
When the same have the opportunity to partake in the dance.
Soon you can no longer the difference tell,
As they outdo the older members in dance moves madly more grotesque.

My perplexity knew no bounds,
As I strove to make sense of the spectacle before me.
How could men otherwise mature and sane partake in dance so outlandish?
Why would outsiders view them with scorn,
Only to join the inglorious company and turn out worse?
What was the mystery of the dark common pot?
What is this elixir that turn men into beasts?

And for which they gladly die,
All honour and reticence thrown to the wind?