So sedulous about her studies right in front of me,
With hopes to improve her sagacity,
Expand the coasts of her emporium,
Yet, she causes great discomfort for me.
The newspaper was once alluring,
My evening snuff was so satisfying,
But her protruding backside seems to shout my name, in calling,
“What art thou doing?”, it’s questioning.
Concentration went overboard,
For everything had a mind of its own,
The ever-jubilant piping manhood needed the pleasure of its own,
But she’s just a girl and the society find this indecorous- you know;
English calls it incest,
Others call it rape,
But my feet are feeble to the calling of this temptsome test.
Her unsteady hips beckon to me,
Drooling out my name in a different melodic pitch,
My inner-man jets out, for it refuses to hold back, its shame,
Hands are unsteadily guided to grab at this bane,
What should I do to be saved from this pain?
I am no longer in control,
Every organ seems to be recalcitrant and at the wheel of control,
Spiking organic thoughts that are insalubrious and needs a recleaning,
What should I do, as I find myself on spreadsheets with no power of my own?
As I drink from the cups of loud screams and moans?
More from the Writer: TRAVAILS OF THE FIRSTBORN CHILD
Written by Essiet James