A game of words

Can you can a can as a canner can can a can? I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice-creams. Clean clams crammed in clean cans. How many cookies could a good cook cook if a good cook could cook cookies? A good cook could cook as much cookies as a good cook who could cook cookies.

You could war; you could robe yourself; you could even be, all inside a wardrobe. (WordPress.com) It doesn’t matter if we make a World Trade Centre of meaning by the time we get to the final full stop of this causerie or we make a Syria of nonsense. It’s not what we burke along the way; it’s how successfully we have made words our playthings. See, a slap and a dash make a slapdash and when you drink a glass of water, it’s not the water you drink but the glass. And if you insist on drinking up the glass along with the water, you endanger your health. Remember what they say about health being wealth. But health is only wealth for the wretched of the hospital beds, it’s definitely the infirmity of those who can hop here, land there and without a penny to their name. Once you catch your health and your breath, health is no longer enough. Poverty is sickness for the hale and hearty. You could war; you could robe yourself; you could even be, all inside a wardrobe. Don’t see how you can make a ward of it but whatever you wish to do with a wardrobe; you’d need some pelf. Robb an elf, kill an imp, rape a giant; just get some dosh. You can dance for him, sing for him, think for him but you can only clap him and not clap for him. What codswallop! And why can’t freelance mean pierce freely with sharp instrument? What has being a maverick, working for different companies or being a soldier got to do with it? There is a lap in a clap, a tab in a table, a bat in every battery, a put in compute just as death is interdigitated with life but there’s no valley in valley, only a v, an a, two lls, an e and a y. If you wish to see a valley, go out there and experience one. Flowers sleep in bed, just not the type you have in your bedroom. Flowerbed is for flowers as bedroom is for you. We all sleep all the same: humans and plants and things. Ask the palm oil that is kept in the attic during winter. We don't speak of the age of pot, yet we make pottage to diversify our monotonous meal. Porridge is oatmeal not the sauce you make out of yam or beans. And nothing pours from it but we call it porridge anyway. Time makes things; things make time. Doesn't really matter what makes make or anything so long we continue to make and be made. But history is a remorseless rememberer of kings. Don’t say you don’t know why – kings have men who are vast in the game of words. The wonderment of the rush hour is in the stillness of the traffic. There is a muse behind every music; a use in every ruse; an age in every page; an owl in every bowl; a chi in every china. Deep and deep must call unto each other and run deep like still waters. Thanks to the g that comes before the o that comes before the d, otherwise, god would have been a dog. Kudos to the t that comes before the o that comes before the p, otherwise, top would have been a pot. Respect to the p that comes before the a that comes before the l, otherwise, pal would have been a lap or slap if you pluralise the pals. Kiss and find the hiss in every kiss. Slap and find the clap in every slap. Smash and find the smithereens in every clash. Dreams hide in sleep just as ope conceals itself in hope. You can’t afford to pilfer a pirate’s private property, for he will come after you and reduce you to a one-eyed fool and steal you in full. What can you do? Can you can a can as a canner can can a can? I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice-creams. Clean clams crammed in clean cans. How many cookies could a good cook cook if a good cook could cook cookies? A good cook could cook as much cookies as a god cook who could cook cookies. Bumfuzzled? Not yet. Back and running, words would read the same to the past or the future. That is why lol is still lol and mom is still mom even when you spell them backward. A nut for a jar of tuna. Are we not pure? “No sir!” Panama’s moody Noriega brags. “It is garbage!” Irony dooms a man – a prisoner up to new era. Just before you dismiss this as a pile of triddledaddles, remember how bad is bad and good. Apply blunt to an object and you have ‘not sharp,’ but attach it to an expression, then you have ‘direct or straight to the point.’ When something is boned, it has bones and does not have bones. When you cleave, you stick to something or someone like glue, you also separate. Comprise consists and constitutes. How could a life be so self-contradicting? You are a rube or a yahoo, when you are unsophisticatedly naïve and alien to city ways. If you are young and dressed in rags, tatterdemalion is the word for you. If you are eternally blind to the bright sides of issues, then you are a smellfungus. You cannot afford to be late for school, that is why you always skedaddle. If you happen to be an oocephalus, you’d understand this is not a mere gobbledygook. It’s hard to find a clock that travels widdershins. It’s understandable if you have become wabbit after having wadded through the flood of this rigmarole. And please don’t mistake the w for r because wabbit and rabbit are simply worlds apart: one is an animal, the other is being exhausted. The game has probably created a desert on your head. Take this honest advice: get a toupee (if you are a man), wear a wig if you are a lady. Cheers! Written by Omidire Idowu. Omidire, Idowu Joshua is a crazy wordsmith. You have just had a firsthand experience of his very bad linguistic expertise. He conducts online English classes, writes and edits for blogs and online magazines. Get him at noblelifeliver@gmail.com
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