Friday, 21 July 2017


Skip the nuance and insinuation
Better yet tell me from the hails
The cradle of your soul; my ails
Stop torturing my imagination

May be if I had oil wells
Or better yet gold mines
May be you wouldn’t think twice
Or better yet not think at all
Of availing that which my heart craves 

Should have a gun
Or better yet a nuclear weapon
For me to earn my respect
May be we’d be buddies

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