"poke" poems
I'll **** you,
If you want.
Cause I want it
Just as bad as you do.
But I also want to hear the rustle of the sheets
When you turn over in the middle of the night.
I want to feel your hot breath on my neck.
I want the stubble on your chin to graze my cheek
As you kiss me gently on the forehead.
And when I whisper "goodnight," you don't have to reply.
Just nudge me with your knee
Or poke me with your elbow.
Aug 13, 2012
Aug 13, 2012 at 8:57 PM UTC
Thank you ~
for a life not to trade
blessings, in spades
tight spaces
behind laundry doors
packed closets
and open drawers
gator tails, tarnished brass
cracks in kitchen sliding glass
wet towels, withering plants
foundation filled
with carpenter ants
buckets piled with
shoes and tags
village clothes
and saddlebags
peeling paint
and broken walls
****** seats
in bathroom stalls
clogged pantry
frigid rooms
table scribe
and carbon fumes
comfort capsules
empty tanks
broken limbs
from children’s pranks
**** finger
double tongue
long goodbyes
and sidewalk dung
cluster flies
chavie’ clique
accompanying
the hypocrite
cracked back
and hidden smiles
chalk on board
with mr miles
atomic wedgies
closing doors
wrotten eggs
and open sores
jaw jack
nasty folk
dinner calls
for pig in poke
penny pinchers
double dip
yellow mouth
and silver tip
brown nosers
thick red tape
paper cuts
and pimple nape
gallivants
so out of norm
the joy of life…
in basic form
Jan 14, 2017
Jan 14, 2017 at 2:03 PM UTC
Grandpa sits in his favorite chair,
Spots his granddaughter and starts to stare,
Whips out his **** and starts to stroke,
He knows it’s his granddaughter he wants to poke,
Calls her over and says, “Pretty please.”
Come on granddaughter get on your knees,
She does as she’s told and ***** him with zest,
Because she knows ****** is best.
Uncle Roy decides to give it a whirl,
He likes to dress his nephew up as a girl,
Likes to see him in silk and lace,
Lipstick and makeup on his face,
Imagining him with heels on his feet,
As he sits there and starts to stroke his meat,
He’d love to put him to the test,
Because he knows ****** is best.
Mother decides to get in on the act,
Her and her son have a special pact,
While her husbands at work she gets in his bed,
Pulls down his pants and starts giving him head,
Son likes his mom dressed up in her lace,
As he shoots his load all over her face,
He knows his mom is better than the rest,
Because he knows ****** is best.
Sister and brother are a special pair,
It’s more than a last name these two share,
Brother Bill can’t believe his luck,
Having a sister that likes to ****
Says, “Hey Sis, come on over here.”
As he bends her over and takes her rear,
Going at it like animals it becomes a real fuckfest,
Because they both know ****** is best.
Father can’t believe his daughter is so kind,
She’s on her knees as he takes her behind,
She moans and screams and starts to cry,
Says, “Hey Daddy, you’re my kind of guy.”
Daddy tells her ****** is the better way,
It’s a game the whole family can play,
Daddy treats his daughter like an honored guest,
Because they both know ****** is best.
11-27-09b.
Dec 23, 2011
Dec 23, 2011 at 1:20 AM UTC
I'M MAKING nachos in your toaster oven. The chips fall in the pan without a problem. Beans, evenly distributed (if I do say so myself.) Salsa- good to go. Then the cheese. Generic brand shredded cheese blend. I dangle my (washed) fingers into the zip-lock bag, grab a generous pinch and rain mild cheddar down on my gourmet meal. And I feel the tears building. "No," my conscious scolds, "you will not cry over shredded cheese." I add another pinch for flavor, then another to assert dominance. I slide the pan into the tiny oven- triumphant! But the next task breaks me. I freeze when I try to adjust the heat setting. I hear your voice so clearly, like you're still calling from the next room: "you have to press the TOAST button, it cooks much faster." The tears start to roll. I think about how excited you were when cheese bubbled perfectly- "just a little brown, ever so slightly crispy." We would joke about your persnickety preferences, likely a product of your superior taste. Of course, you would have appreciated anything I made for you, but it was always better when the dish matched the idea in your head...when I made it like you would have made it (if you were only well enough to cook for yourself again.) In the present, I poke the TOAST button and flee the kitchen as to not cry in front of the smothered chips. I sit on the sofa and break down, gasping in childish sobs. "I miss her," I wail to an empty house. Warm tears coat my cheeks in the air-conditioned room. I feel so small. I feel so foolish for crying over stupid, little things. I feel so... so... A bell dings in the kitchen. I wipe my sleeve across my face and traipse back to the toaster. Hand into oven mitt, mitt onto pan, pan onto table. I grab the plastic tubs of sour cream and guacamole from the fridge and a spoon from the drawer that sticks a little when you try to open it. I pick the non-wilted bits off the head of lettuce and rinse them under the faucet. I finish the recipe. I pull out a chair. I sit down to nachos for one.
Jun 4, 2018
Jun 4, 2018 at 9:57 PM UTC
I love company
In the form of anxious thoughts
I am less lonely
Accompanied by twenty screaming voices
Tearing at my every inch of flesh
Pouring pain into my veins
Crying is good for the soul
They laugh in union
As I lie lonely in my bed
Hoping someone will find me
Bruised and broken
And take me into their arms
Hold me like a child
But you are too grown to feel such things
These voices whisper, licking blood
Carefully off their fingers
Spikes poke at my sides leaving no room
For me to move or breathe
I am slowly dying
And yet I tell you I am fine
For if I were to ever admit
That this is how I truly feel
My demons would take form
No longer shadows but figures
Ready to take me whole
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 4:20 PM UTC
I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it----
A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a **** lampshade,
My right foot
A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.
Peel off the napkin
0 my enemy.
Do I terrify?----
The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.
Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me
And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.
This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.
What a million filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see
Them unwrap me hand and foot
The big strip tease.
Gentlemen, ladies
These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,
Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.
The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut
As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
Dying
Is an art, like everything else,
I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.
It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
It's the theatrical
Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:
'A miracle!'
That knocks me out.
There is a charge
For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart----
It really goes.
And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood
Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.
I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby
That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.
Ash, ash ---
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there----
A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.
Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.
Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.
26k
Black Rose sweet Demon bud
A kiss from a Vamp with taste of blood
Emotionless heart infused with desire
Intoxicating lust sets us on fire
Exposed skin
Reveals our sin
As we dig in
Tie you up
You go down
Feel my whip wrap around
Call me Dom
You my Sub
Wear your body like a glove
Drop disguise
Reflection in your eyes
Watch this devil rise
No surprise
Angels cry as I enter your thighs
In realm of our imagination together we flow
****** stroke
Mental poke entering slow
Is there Beauty in the Darkness?
I suppose
As you bloom
Under moon my Black Rose..
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 12:15 AM UTC
He forgot his soap
What a dope
No one here can cope
He's worse than campfire smoke
He could of brought it on a rope
So he wouldn't have to *****
Instead he'll mope
For friends he's got no hope
They run when they scope
The boy without his soap
Rolling down the slope
Singing baroque
Like the pope
He tried a bath in coke
Oh what a joke
Because the sugars provoke
Mosquitoes to bite and poke.
Still he stinks like BO and oak
Smells like a singer of folk
Whose hair is matted into rope
Cause he won't use soap
What a dope!
Nov 28, 2012
Nov 28, 2012 at 11:33 PM UTC
Some days, it feels like the only thing I need in life is a cellphone.
With a cellphone, I can spend my time flinging birds into pigs,
Slicing fruit, and collecting coins,
Never stopping until I get the high score.
I can swipe, poke, drag my finger
Across a screen of light,
Letting the thrill of technology override my soul.
With a cellphone, I can write lol a million times,
Without a single chuckle escaping from my lips,
And mask my life with a fake profile,
And an artificial smile,
And a status update every once in a while,
To show the World Wide Web my embellished life style.
With a cellphone, I don’t need to stop and smell the roses,
When there’s an app for that.
Why would I lay back and watch the vibrant colors of the sunset,
When it can be downloaded off the Internet?
Why would anyone bother to take risks,
To laugh with friends,
To cry alone,
To feel alive…
When there’s a cellphone in your back pocket?
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 8:09 PM UTC
same setting from a year ago...
i am not sure why, but
before the clock strikes twelve midnight,
my eyes would surely open
no matter what.
coffee in bed right now,
with a few cookies to munch....
my bifocals, where are they?
i need them now...i could vaguely see
something crawls on the carpet,
making rounds, circling my bed...
oh, no, it is hopping towards my comforter...
I stretch a leg beneath the pillows
something moves very near my toes.
i withdraw my leg, alarmed,
as it quickly disappears...
...then reappears! now stationary...
this is starting to annoy me...
I poke it with a pencil,
fear no longer present,
now, with my bifocals found.
but it hops.....and hops...
and hops into hiding
down.....down.....below,
somewhere inside my comforter.
In lieu of me, it is now the comforted.
it is taking too long to come out.
.....something i realized just now.....
could it be possible, could it remember...
i was kind enough not to use a swatter before....
why, i feel like i am being welcomed!
we are playing hide-and-seek,
a welcome dance it is!
here and now, just like before
from last autumn,
we are finally reunited,
my cricket friend and i....
S a l l y
Copyright 2013
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 1:03 AM UTC
Is there a difference,
give us a reference,
between a stalker,
and a pokemon.
The monger hits news,
game spots and toss,
time lost and chaos,
with a pokemon.
In Canada......
The rule breakers,
cross the borders,
an inadvertently walk,
for a pokemon.
In Guatemala city .......
The teenage boy,
under the wizard,
die in the cause,
for a pokemon.
In London.......
The go players,
ambushed in public,
and robbed by trees,
all for pokemon.
In Africa.....
The rumble,
then scrambles,
to get the last,
the dusts of pokeman.
In Asia...........
No signs too,
they tire and wait,
for the nostalgia,
all for pokeman.
In New York.....
It's a no, no,
for *** offenders,
or become criminals,
All for pokeman.
Poke me man,
NO SOD OFF!
It's all crazy,
the apocalypse,
of freaks and creatures!
Poke me man!
I DARE YOU NOT!
Go find old cards,
a bank of more funds,
all for pokemon.
Poke me man!
I POCKET YOU!
As phones hide,
their lunch hunt,
the herd of pokemon.
Aug 2, 2016
Aug 2, 2016 at 6:22 AM UTC
My ****
follows me everywhere!
Wiggle wiggle, poke poke, jiggle jiggle.
At the fridge in night I've a friend by my side.
By my backside.
On,
my backside.
Stuck with humidity to the toilet seat on a rainy day,
that's right!
The bathroom exists, and on a toilet do I sit.
At least four or five times daily.
Stuck to chair, playing with hair with one hand
and a controller in the other.
Pumping up and down and in circles as I
jump squat.
Jump squat!
To share if you dare put your palm down there to squeeze.
Grab slap, wibble wibble.
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 2:07 AM UTC
Waiting all alone
waiting on this cold table
waiting for the doctors and the drones
I feel the scratch
of the itchy cotton gown
on the narrows of my back
as it climbs up and down
Displayed I lye on the medical tables hard cold steel
It seers into the crevices of my bones
I ponder the lone window and wonder if it's real
I listen for the bleep and bloop of medical tones
Nurses walk by in a mechanical grace
poke and **** & tap and touch my face
and then proceed to leave without a trace
with no hint of knowledge of my medical case
Waiting all alone
waiting on this cold table
waiting for the doctors and the drones
I'm a big girl, I'm a big girl
I begin to chant in a simple rhythm
as small as a ball I begin to curl
I'm abandoned inside this glassy prism
The dead silence creeps inside my brain
I want to scream to fill the deadly gap
but the cold thick air of silence brings pain
I comfort myself and say it will be ok
My breathing begins to quicken
my eyes dart around the room
only comfort is the fear which I am stricken
my sight goes bleary as darkness looms
Waiting all alone
waiting on this cold table
waiting for the doctors and the drones
Tears sting the corner of my eyes
I want someone to hold my hand
Oh God how I want to cry
but the only thing there is the bleeding arm band
The test begins with the thickness of barium
It slides down my throat and clings to my esophagus
It tastes like chalk and pandemonium
they want me to suffocate I guess
I chug and chug as the pictures are snapped
x-ray upon x-ray of my stomach and my back
Drink more Drink more They tell me to do
Nervously I shake and say, anymore and I will puke on you
Waiting all alone
waiting on this cold table
waiting for the doctors and the drones
Even more poking and prodding ensues
but of my stomach, ribs and *******
I lay rigid as a board from the pain of each touch
I grow weary of this tiresome rues
The tests are done
and the coast is clear
I am left alone
to dress myself in fear
Dismissed and discharged to walk away
they file my chart with a robotic smile
now for the wait of endless days
I'm lost in my mind's land of emotional exile
Waiting all alone
waiting on this cold table
waiting for the doctors and the drones
Pins & Needles Pins & Needles
I wait for the results
Is it stomach cancer, an ulcer or both??
In the dark I am kept like followers in cults.
Nov 2, 2010
Nov 2, 2010 at 2:34 PM UTC
Elephant in the room, shoo the hell away!
Don't stick around; I wish you wouldn't stay
Don't mess with my head, inciting all I feel
I don't need you here, I want to heal
Stop blaring in my ears, your noxious lies
I'm sick to the stomach with my pathetic cries
Resist flapping your gigantic ears
They simply just fan the rage in my tears
Quit blocking my view with your sheer enormity
Get out of my thoughts so better I could see
Halt your incessant skin rubbing against my sores
Chafing me raw on top of my existing scores
Pull out your pointy tusks, they poke and jab
I'm bent in many places; I don't need more stabs
Take your infernal rear out of my face!
I'm self-destructing, counting up the days
Cease your retaliation, leave with no protest
Go find and sit yourself in someone else's nest
Drop your intentions to stomp me broken
I'm mangled enough; almost misshapen
End this mindless rampage...please
Let me iron myself straight, in peace...
Dear elephant, have you gone?
Thank you for the blight of my time, you've spawned
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 10:16 PM UTC
trip up the island to see all the folk
monopoly, pong => pig 'n a poke
crystalline glass with dark bitter ale
Santa is looking a little bit pale
cherry red cheeks from a chilled chardonnay
one sailing wait for the talk of the day
drum sticks and dressing are the pick of the bird
chestnuts and brandy for gravy being stirred
brussels and taters are pulled from the bake
pears in the salad bring memories of Jake
sparks from the fire with rich amber glow
grey hair and wrinkles will come...don't you know?
gingerbread man with a white icing smile
candy cane schnapps (with its seasonal style!)
pine cones and tinsel that cover the tree
carols are humming from churches and streets
cold winter nights are the best of the year
chocolate and eggnog await with good cheer
a heavy thick fog approaches the sound
the comforts of Christmas, with joy all around!
Dec 10, 2017
Dec 10, 2017 at 9:48 PM UTC
I was treated like the VIP,
A cat and a big fish,
A hook and a big Six,
whilst visiting madam bow-peeps
rotisserie of *****
Always receptive,
Wearing open silk
working 9 to 5am.
With a little overtime,
hot funk never satisfies,
She had the way-with-all
to feign, delight; even interest,
before negotiating the price,
Two shekels,
She was classy,
kind of slick,
she tickled my ears
for nothing more than kindness,
a small token in exchange for a smile.
She popped on a tune,
as she took off her dress.
The petting started
her two hands tugging with the zipper of my jeans.
A woman's touch... Ha HA,
the rich sultry kiss of *****
tight and tasty;
***** like a ripe tomato,
Sugar fried and drunk.
She opened her legs,
her hair smelled like shampoo,
She was on her belly,
knees tucked up
as I took in the fruit,
deep holes filled with **** and shabby fingers,
hollow spit and angry poison,
head spinning to the groove,
loud and high,
The bed squeaked
and a single light bulb dangled
like a loose tooth,
Ten minutes and
two ******* love songs!
Sick and spent up,
I got dressed to leave,
I said with a poke,
"I couldn't get laid,
Not even in a ***** house!"
And now I'm back in the cold again,
only dirtier.
Oct 10, 2018
Oct 10, 2018 at 4:50 PM UTC
I knew it'd happen.
A dead Ladybug over our heads.
But we drank.
Beer,
Champagne,
Sun.
We painted our nails
Black, red, ladybug's dead
Out we went,
In our finest.
One drink down,
New town.
Sticky floors, sticky web, the Ladybug hung dead.
I say something,
to you.
I know it's going to happen.
You fume.
Tick, tick, tick...
You start to shout.
Cigarette.
Here we go.
I'm not backing down on this,
I'm trying to help!
Help me, help me, set me free, let me live, ladybugs free!
*****
I bite my lip
SNOTTY
I breathe
LIAR
I blow
Tears spill on your face,
My truth comes out,
You pushed me!
Poke, Poke, Push!
Poke, Poke, Push!
We hurt each other.
Over nothing.
Over something you don't like?
What is it?
I give up.
Taxi for one,
Taxi for two.
My head is heavy,
Eyes weak.
I'll be the bad guy.
You'll cry to them,
and lie, lie, lie!
Fly, fly, fly far away. Ladybugs aren't here to stay.
Oct 15, 2012
Oct 15, 2012 at 4:57 PM UTC
The night storm washed up infant squirrels at my doorstep.
One by one, they crawled inside, their heads too heavy to hold up high.
I watched them paw at the carpet, their tongues searching.
Their claws find your sweater, within it they scamper,
they are hungry.
They rumble by my stomach, and poke their faces out of your collar.
To stop their crying, I feed them raisins, and we look to you for more.
But they see your eyes are meant for your thoughts alone,
and fall off my skin and out of your clothing.
The squirrels have grown up, and yearn for expanse.
That's okay hon, I’ll return them to the forest
first thing tomorrow morning.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 7:59 AM UTC
She was the one who made me belive in happiness.
She was the one who was there two years ago,
With me.
And now,
I think she dosen't need me anymore.
Well, yes.
She comes back when she's crying,
And I'm the one who conforts her,
But after this,
She just runs away.
But, what about me?
What if I'M sad?
What if I'M crying.
Nothing.
I call this a game.
She's playing with me.
And I let her.
Cause I know Karma will take care of her.
Hanna says it: Sometimes you poke the bear. Other times, the bear pokes you."
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 4:15 PM UTC
this is a medical emergency ossified
in utero part the hair to cover
pink earwax scar innervated this
cochlea this ******* that steals
the spotlight and rooster’s comb
braised sockets for teeth wired through
the rafters kissing corner braces
shallow chromium double-eye poke
like a pile of face bones stacked
paul bunyan forest slide and jump from
the peak to the pool shallow and
undisturbed to dunk your face and
see future pure voodoo spirit board
and voice box locked with tongue-ectomy
removal of cough through neck hole
cardboard cut stickers in half to
write ***** I’m done.*
Oct 16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015 at 4:24 PM UTC
1.
He lights another mortar
and the dog runs after it
barking and trying to bite it
he grabs it's back leg as the sky lights up
since he had barely thought to look over
and the words around here don't reach his mind
his ears defective as they are.
He says something with his hands
something foreign to me
but six people watching laugh
and so do I.
2.
His wife sits with her sons
her stomach wide with their third
another boy
she's gotten so used to talking with her hands
that her voice is rusty
and her vocabulary limited
but she's here as much as the rest
sitting and laughing and having a good time.
3.
The owner of the house sits off the side in the nicest lawn chair here
a cup in her hand
we've quit counting how many drinks she's had
but she only drinks a couple days a year
and nobody is giving her any problems
and she seems to be able to be her normal self.
She had been questioning me earlier today
seeing if I was really a good guy
testing whether she'd have to sit at the table with a shotgun
every time I spent any time with her niece.
4.
Her husband is launching his own collection of mortars off
with his brother
while her brother-in-law hands the teens the novelties
I launch off a dozen flowers
and a few spinny things.
She occasionally breaks her fingers away from mine
to launch off a flower, smokebomb or firecracker
and occasionally runs over to poke-chop her uncle
who keeps talking to the fireworks.
She always comes back and we'll wander by her mom and stepdad
(the latter always throws in some sort of comment
so we act careful around him)
and over to her cousins
or toward her aunt and roommate.
Occasionally we'll have to get something from the house
and we sneak three kisses
but we mostly just stay in each others arms
keeping each other warm in the almost warm 4th of July night
our hands both entwined
one of our heads always on the others shoulder
and in all the craziness
all the family drama
everything is perfect and she's smiling so hard her cheeks keep hurting
and she keeps telling me how little sleep she's gonna get
and I tell her I ain't gonna be able to sleep at all
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 4:21 AM UTC
I can imagine
myself as a midwife or a medicine woman—
waking early
wandering
the wooddesertmountain
with bad-ass boots & a patchy coat, pockets filled with rosemary and crystals
driving an old truck that smells of rolled cigarettes and gasoline
drinking hot tea out of a mason jar.
i see all of this & I wonder where this image will land me.
Portland in the fall?
Nevada in the Winter?
Colorado? Montana?
But I need the trees.
My power is in the mountains.
Or maybe it is in the moon—and her face isn’t bound to the side of the mountain
i need the howl of coyotes, the smell of pine, the sound of running water over rocks, cold air, wind.
i crave this to the center of my
bones.
i want to dance with fire women, sing air songs, pray to the earth, bathe in the water, and
speak with the
spirit mother & the red father that binds all of these together in a chaotic harmony i will never understand.
i need to paint my body with the stain of poke berry and
run, foot against stone, against decaying leaves.
there is a savage within me
that needs to run free
that needs to bark at the moon and breathe clean air.
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 5:03 PM UTC
EPILOGUE:
When wisdom fills the old calabash,
It overflows and seeps in
The sun dries it to be stronger
That way it lasts with experience
So was the calabash of Atanga’s Granpa
On his very dying bed
He called Atanga to his bed
And had his last stream flow to him
GRANDPA:
My dear Atanga,
Please in the name all great Atangas
This is my last advice to you
If you wish to take a wife
Never choose either of these:
The woman with light skin
The woman with dark skin
The woman who is short
And the woman who is tall
ATANGA:
Ei! Grandpa!
Then tell me not to marry
Who then do you want me to marry?
Not the fair
Nor the dark
Not the short
Nor the tall?
GRANDPA:
Listen my boy
To words of old
The light skinned woman
Is the fantasy of all
If you choose her
None will help you prosper
Every man wants you to fail
So they can quickly take your place
So never dream of the fair woman
No matter how much you crave for her
ATANGA:
Oh! I see
I think I do understand
Grandpa what about the rest?
GRANDPA:
Never go in for dark skinned woman
She is the one that all your people loathe
She is the one whose people hate you
The only people interested are you and her
When disaster strikes, none will hear
So never go in for the dark skinned woman
ATANGA:
Oh! I see
Now I know
It is not the colour
Nor the character
A woman like that
Would do me harm
Now let us go on
Explain the rest
GRANDPA:
Never go in for the short woman
A short woman is the neighbour’s daughter
Her house is so close to your house
You can never have a moment of peace
Whatever you do
Her people poke their noses
You can never have your lives to live
ATANGA:
Grandpa is wise
So what about the last?
GRANPA:
The tall woman
Is the woman who comes from afar
Her home-town is far
So you can’t have peace
Any time there is trouble in her home
You need to pay
To get your people to go with you
Amidst the feeding
And transportation
How can you proper?
ATANGA:
Granpa is wise
Grandpa has lived
Who would have thought
Of these wise sayings
To an infant where thoughts are concerned?
Thank you Grandpa
So which type of woman
Must I marry?
Grandpa?
Grandpa?
I am asking you a question!
Grandpa!!!!
Grandpa please answer!!!!
MMA:
Grandpa is gone
To the land of beyond
Where sorrow is nil
And thinking is unreal
Just be glad you sipped from his calabash
Of wisdom before he left
PROLOGUE:
And that ended
Grandpa’s advice
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) 2014
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 10:02 AM UTC