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For Brown Bread and Bed
Queen looks like The Dead,
No served loved Brown Bread.
With bread again lives
Starts again to breathe,
Her best at work gives,
Not with anger seethes…
Queen becomes True Head
From tasted Brown Bread
Starts guiding a spiv:
“From Poor Rice stones sieve!”
For ‘Brown’ not ‘White Bread’
‘Dark’ not like ‘Bright Red’
Queen as much for bed;
Die she would instead,
When aches fight ones head
Or blue eyes dark red,
Good rest to health give:
Sleep that makes one live…
For Brown Bread and Bed,
She’d like angels tread!
Copyright ©
Chinedum Ekwobi
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