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Yams
If you’ve got beef with me,
Please season it to taste.
Every word of hate is just a breath you waste,
The face of disbelief,
Will you ever forgive yourself come the end of days?
Sweet honeyed hams served on a hot plate,
A feast fit for a king,
The chief left not a crumb of the baste.
“Could I get green eggs,
Sweet corns,
And yams to chase?”
His honored guest attempted to efface,
But appearing bothered,
His Majesty was tempted to debate.
“Why not.”
A defeated nod accompanied by a contemptuous smile displayed.
Two eyes watched the pair from far far away,
Blissfully unaware of the dangers lying in wait.
Swift hand signals share a thousand words to say,
The plan these strangers prepared is now underway.
Copyright ©
R.P. Grcic
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