Abike! Thy native pot rejects the streams of ogundaye.
Your flower pot you have hidden well,
But the gods have not kept silent towards you.
Abike! Your okuku displays your beauty,
And the beads around your waist supports your hips .
No man lays sight on you and deprives himself an introduction,
But your sharp words and dire speech has kept them on their way.
Abike! All thy playmates have found love under the pawpaw tree,
But here you sit with your wrapper tied tight around your waist waiting patiently for the great farmers and hunters of our land.
Abike! Hide not your nakedness from thy suitors,
For the traditions of your father’s house demands it.
Bear their children and build a home.
Your father’s roof no longer hosts you as his child,
But as a guest who refuses to clean his mouth after a native meal.
Abike! Disregard not the words of the elders.
Break that flower pot under the moonlight,
And lay the hunters bed when the deed is done.
Make ogundaye proud as you fetch the sweet waters from its streams
For tomorrow you will be as a worn out flower,
And no man will look your way again.