Some parents have sons and daughters
They bath them with eternal bless,
And at their hour of need
They are also looked after.
It is not then difficult to understand
They wish to have them by the thousands.
Others aren't so lucky,
Their sons and daughters
Are harbingers of colossal disasters.
Who then can blame them!
If they constantly curse the days
They laboured to conceive them.
I have thirteen of my own,
I cannot complain the number,
Nor can I their looks and statures.
They are winsome, stalwart, stunning creatures -
Wider in the chest,
Taller than the tallest.
When meander, weary of straight steps
No legendary python
Has had ever matched their elegant shapes.
When taken to the air for a free-fall
They put to shame the king of the sky - Gyrfalcon.
They are pedigrees,
Fed with real soil, compost
And no diamante whatsoever - be it gold or diamond.
Green, leafy, grass-like for clothes.
And as a loving parent, I take no issue,
They go wherever and whenever they pleased.
However, the problem is this:
Some have gone for far too long
They seem to have forgotten where they belong.
Few have even conspired and connived
With the outright enemies and detractors of mine
Who leave no stone un-turn, my existence to undermine.
I have got one blood and flesh
Who has refused time and again to elope
With a femme fatale trollop.
It is only my son Awash
Who has refused to splurge and splash
With salacious coquettish,
Clean and kiss
Her fusty, lanky and dusty femoral lips awash.
As to the other dozen sons and daughters
Curse them, I shall not,
Nor would I want see them suffer
It is out of character.
However, I would be telling a lie
If I say, my amour to them is still alive.
Seated next to you Ganges Mother,
How do I fare?
Speak you mind, no need to despair.
Am I not a fecund barren?
Crepe is my womb, real rubber
It knows no pain whatsoever
It produces umpteen children
Only By hucksters to be stolen.
