Baked from clay
God's replica perse
As a companion to her lord
Hav'n been weaved from his ribs
Her golden skin
The smile from her lips
Her Beautiful long hair
Well ported in her flair
The fullness of her breast
The curves of her thighs
The rhythmical tick -tack of her back
Swipes men off their feet
Endure succeeding pleasure
The pain in her gain
The world call it fate
I call it suffering.
To the monthly tax collector she bows
Embracing un-merited abdominal crisis
So much pain she gains
The never graduating student
From cradle to the grave
Receive and give
The untied bound slave.
Peace learnt, Peace taught
Replenish the earth
In sets and pets
Alas!
The incubating matron is left alone the clan to guide
Bringing forth a child to chide
Relent or get it done
Good eggs are sons
Bad ones left to the matrons scorn
On and on
Like pun she toils
Till nature her course takes
And for her;
Dawn cease to come.
BY
DAMILOLA
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