You have bread,
I have akara,
Open up your bread for my balls;
Yes, my balls of akara,
Let me smear you with some oil,
Yes, some productive oil.
Our lascivious combo will yield a result.
Oh yes, an inevitable result.
When I eat your bread,
With the container aloof.
What else is expected of such fertile oil of my akara?
The result, my dear,
Is garment raised,
Bowel in a bowl,
And some deafening groans,
Even the cart pusher will not
Push as half as you.
The inevitable result will stink.
It will stink of shame.
The shame of lust,
The shame of impatience,
The shame of youthful exuberance,
So why rush?
Why hurry to taste the brewing soup?
Why drink of the wine before it ferments?
My dear, I will wait.
Even if your bread is large, slim, or sliced,
Even if your bread is chocolaty, milky, or sardine-garnished,
Still will I tarry;
Like the believer who awaits the saviour`s arrival.
Even if my akara is steaming hot,
In its attractively brown look,
Even if it is crunchy, soggy or hard,
Still will I tarry,
As the frustrated applicant awaits a Canadian visa.
Your bread you shall keep,
My akara I shall preserve,
Till the night after “I do.”
Because I really will do.
Donne nor Marvel shall I not be,
Persuading you to bed will I not do,
“Chastity” shall our watchword be.
Until the night after “I do.”
Then shall we roll our strength and all,
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Through the iron gates of life.
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