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Conjolted Poetry

Conjolted Poetry

Sunday, 29 June 2014

Bra strapped for a day.

Bra strapped for a day

From mars into Venus,
I'd be sent into her womb,
to germinate then curl up
warm and cosy in her belly,

She'd feed me,
I'd kick her,
they'd touch me,
ayeh, like an artefact;
I'd be sealed in.

As I pray to be born and breed,
into a wealthy family with bread.
that way I'd be assured of beauty.
Do you oft see the wealthy hideous?

When her balloon pops,
and gives breath to life,
I'll roll out like yarn,
ready to take on the world,

fill it with tearless squeals,
comic gaga's and gugu's
tears of joy and sorrow,
and falls giving me bubu's,

When I fully mature,
and speak without fear,
when they understand me,
and can finally bare me,

I'd have no time to waste,
in this fast world full of tests,
and I'd grow a load on my chest,
'least it'd be packed to attract,

I'd have beautiful hair,
plate it in tuts and swas,
bate and test boys with it-
to see who'd dare to care.

My father would spoil me,
buy me jewels and fuel,
high heels to please rotten me,
and I'd still treat him cruel.

I wouldn't be mama's favourite,
but heck! I'd be daddy's little girl.
She would complain about my ways,
having forgotten about her days.

I'd be sent off to college,
to lollygag through a system-
where I'd throw sin in my bin-
when college stud takes a win.

Out and finally into the jungle
living a perpetually contrite life,
I'd carry on in constant strife.
it's human nature so I'd tussle

Unluckily; my ambition would be challenged
they'd have lied to me about making my way,
til it dawns that I'm grown and I've got bills to pay.
Luckily; I'd be "Inherently beautiful."

So some cursed fellow with money
would make his way to call me honey.
When I'm content and bored-
by his nagging yet charming efforts.

I'd let him in, and-
when he "comes,"
we'd move to Rome;
and find a home.

We'd be madly in love,
so we'd throw away the gloves,
I'd do my dance like a star,
keep him from straying far.

And with hot melting pot,
I'd cast a spell onto his tummy,
watching it to keep him yummy,
till my time comes to be a mummy.

Then he'd know why he's cursed!
I'd throw tantrum after tantrum,
he'd have to bare morning sickness,
and pamper me like a baby.

When the children make there way,
and labour pains have come to an end.
wedding bells will be our trumpet,
the kids our hell, yet also our heaven.

I'd have stopped trying to keep him around,
It'd be his choice to stay or play around,
for by then I'd be trying to make ends meet,
trying to keep my family with a plate of meat.

Of course he'd be buying it;
it's African nature; feminist displeasure;
Nevertheless, I'd be cooking-
it'd be my outright pleasure.

Then when all is said and done,
and God thinks I'v had my run,
the night and it's pale moon,
will come along to end my day,

Give me bliss and comfort
by unhooking me from life's tight straps.

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