Like peaches and plums, and melons too...
Are some of the fruits that most women grew
Some are so large, and some are so small
Some sag down low and some stand up tall
Some are quite firm and have little dark nipples
Some are quite soft and have wrinkles and ripples
Some are so big...to carry them must be rough
But more than a handful, they say is enough
But one thing for sure, that for most men it's a norm
We love to see boobs... any size, shape or form!
Only full of jibber jabber
Blabbing rumbles goppy blubber
Chat so lots it seems a big ole sea
That bellows jiggles up the sunken ladder
Waterlogged a smullen button belly
Swollen tub of lardy squishy goo
If only spit out complitastic words
Scales and skin could sag down too
Not sure if this is right but it was fun...
Oh, my name is Witch's Titties
I'm the leader of the band
Tho' only two in numbers
they sag down where life is grand
They swing like gaucho's bolos
to excite your fancy balls
Can toss 'em o'er my shoulders
to go dancing up the walls
"...Maybe they would allow me to dance,
perhaps they would leave me to dance;
let me ask the landlords,
If they would permit me to dance.."
Forty horsepower!
Sixty horsepower!!
The horses can keep their power;
Yeye Asiwaju's power is sufficient.
Who would not be amazed?
Half a century of cultural dance:
Dangling head like a pruning pigeon,
Winding waist like a spider its web,
Throwing hands and legs like javelin,
Rock-still, yet rotating like a rolling coin;
Your magic baffles me.
Delight of drummer boy,
If I may ask, tell me:
Which nut bolts your bones?
Which hinges are on your joints?
Which spring bounces you?
What makes your bone unhollow?
Your antics like a parachute:
You can fold, you can unfold,
You can swerve, you can still:
You can puff up, you can sag down.
The day you became flame
Before the high and the lowly
Behold kings and queens
Craning out their necks on toes
To have a glimpse of the cone
'Dola, 'Dola rent the air.
Sure, it is now rhetoric;
It is now superfluous to ask:
Who can dance for the king
And his crown will fall?
It tells of a borrowed joy counted in scores,
A night without love but embraces many
A canopied broken heart by the seaside' insanity
It tells of words championed by a fearless faith.
Poetry has many stories to tell more than
My grandfather's watery unpalatable mouth
It harbours a shrine of tales to tell of heroes
Many dread her root of folklore and fables.
Her mouth is the shelter to many iconic gems
Once watered with a branded gin of history
The soup of yesterday will teste sweeter today
She sag down a mountianous boredom of fear.
Her myths soaked like linen of perspiring soul
She tells of love and hatred, dreams and hope;
Life and death, sin and righteousness before gods
She reveal memories of cemented tricks.
Poetry has many stories to tell to the eyes
It all depends on how you tell the story
Double bladed by the muse of your creativity
And cursed by the venoms of her words.
(C) John Chizoba Vincent
Voice Of Vincent 2016