This is a deep poem and might not be ideal to/for some people. It took me time and sleepless hours to construct as it was completely strange too - strange as a fish climbing a tree.

Read and criticize, please. I wish to explore this new ground further.

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His whip mends graciously,
While them backs writhe ferociously,
Like they grains of rice live preciously.
Then, he be the guardian of the galaxies.

His firm strides;
His strict smiles;
His crispy stripes;
His ever-ticking dials:
Them all, dignity personified.

His voice blessed as Sam,
It rivals the sesame.
Sure enough I get these orgasms,
Second only to Solomons' of the Psalms.

There, he lives with,
The creation that makes him nocturnal, a lady.
And they say he praises her like hymns,
Making me feel like a thing for the bins.

Obeisance to the King flows on his tongue, seamless.
Making prostrations that hide his cultured gait, careless.
And when he rises, I feel in my part a stiffness,
And a sticky jelly of mess.

His shoes leave steps of foot in sands,
And his teachers learn his ways in their glands.
But my pulse wouldn't rise like the stands,
Even if I were taken to see liberty lands.

Woe, could my wish make him mine,
As kings are landmines.
I would make an order intoxicated by wine,
And then he would break like one sent to Daniel's den to dine.

And I die when he's bad,
The world, I would rather see sad;
Or madden again the prophet termed mad;
Or make the night sky empty of the twinkles it once had.
Though I am just a man of a tad.

Broken people; stricken lots,
Misplaced homes; beaten huts.
Then they might speak like sots,
Of a messenger they think has been driven to nuts.

Drenched in splashes,
Covered in flashes,
Of how David will feel after Goliath crashes,
My affections are not to be earthed in trashes.
Within, the ecstasies pile in stashes:
Like the dignity of apparels in starches.

I've learnt his disciplined line,
And he says he likes my rythm.
When he comes for a tête-â-tête with the king,
I see he smiles after Kabiyesi requests for him the nicest wine.

With hope, I've met a good shaman,
In whose hut were pieces of bones,
Whose oracles speak in tones,
So the sprinkles I put in his wine make him my man.

I don't wonder why I've fallen for him,
For people will say fouls to me or in my hind.
I only hope for a day we'll roll in sweet sex,
When his stick will play in my behind sex.
And I've seen me kneeling to ask him to say yes,
In the distant lands where my feeling is legalized.

---

©OluwabuqqyYOLO 2016

Man, you're real good.

Dollipsejay:
Man, you're real good.

Thanks, man. ✌