Scent in thy youthful galls,
Gladdens yours to the crest.
Nunu, the menu from your mama,
Spoilt this one of no thirst,
But urged to hug no bug,
That lingers in the fate of morrow.
Morrow, a bride awaiting a saint;
What flu ageing as yours?
Blessed a morning an amino,
Might fortune one night worry,
And this flu away as soon,
If taken a while as scheduled.
Mercury nurses her womb,
No wound, but faults in motherhood.
Mama, an apple of your eye,
Has raised a pain to his bright vision,
What have you mamma,
Grow cold of thy labour?
Your gland dried pitifully,
Since the morning clocked twelve.
Well enough, your seed shall transform,
Hasting for his prime;
This dream, a concrete prevailing,
In favour of adulthood, between the feeder and motherhood.
Mama, find your son a walking- vehicle,
Awakens his liver of many roles,
To play a learner of tough but pays.
Written by Alade Obafemi