In the middle of the night, I met death at the kitchen: Having a glass of milk. I didn't wash them dishes, so death be not proud; for drinking out a ***** cup... Oh spare me death, my beef was not with thee; but with my own flesh...
Whilst by the stove,I feel the coldness u brought with. I jest for a favour,can you please have "Ubuntu" and hand me over the spoon so my lips can taste the sip of mercy? My cup runs over yet I never drink from it. Allow me this once to say my final prayer and vanquish my hunger with mothers mqomboti...tonight I met death inda kitchen.... No cookies for my milk!