Sweet But Worries Me
The call to cut, dizzy came, the rib is off,
Now woe man!
Spiritual farm farmed by he
None another could carry;
Moisturized soil dried,
Sea wildlife fried,
Bush toil players, roared but are reared,
All other breeds feared.
At eve, He was hissed,
Ahhh, the devil dined!
This stew is rare; not many but few are real,
Thine rib made thee whole.
All these, many are the woes on he,
Beside the sin, sweet is she.
Copyright © Albert Taylor | Year Posted 2022
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