Dressed in linen,
Hips obviously lying,
She wife to none,
Mate to tons.
Screaming obscenities with silent lips,
As her soft pucking
leads numbers her way.
Like the moon, she,
Bejeweled in illuminating darkness,
Glimmers when shadows lengthen,
As her coos adds melody to the still night.
Her busts firm as the young yam mound,
Have with dates, fed many a hungry mouth.
Her mouth professed insanity,as
in her mouth,her heart dwells.
She rode on men’s laps, tagging pockets along.
Moaning to slaps on her back,
She climbed heights we, believed never exists.
Adorned with cobras of lust,
She spits on the lost man,
Enchanting him with smiles of deceit,
As this seed of unhappy peace
she scatters on his fertile mind.
With nails whose mentors are the vultures,
Painted the colour of massacre,
She beckons, whispering her desire to the passing wind.
At dawn, she snores,
Her door, she shuts,
Her house unkempt and so her life,
Her body aches with unwanted seeds,
She coughs but loves her sorry sight.
I’m her source’s pen,
Her life He wishes to suspend,
For like a cent she spends,
Its value is gone.