Skip to main content

BUTTER MY BREAD


Early each dawn 

As water from my well was drawn

This young kid would seldom frown

With a rug twisted into a crown

Coming with her bucket upside down


Butter my bread 

Persistent as though she begged

Her words in a dream while in bed

Adwoa told me of how sad

She lived with her dad.

Mum would have given me more she said

As I helped place the bucket on her head.


Butter and Bread

One just to complement as one is fed

Smear it as long as by taste you're led.

Although sweet scented from the oven

Maybe because it's not stored in heaven

By about a quarter past eleven

A loaf won't be as fresh as it was at seven


So anytime our eels we imagine

Let's not forget the sachet of margarine 

That which changed the taste of a mere sanguine

To now a refined powerful queen

For a king cannot carry himself on a palanquin.


Bread and butter

Seldom if not often,

Alone, no one actually matter

Forget the yarns with which you are woven

Leave them, their craft and ego alone 

They'll have their own sins to atone

Boast not on your unique aroma 

For blood wouldn't function without plasma.


Comments

  1. Noble☝🏽22 August 2020 at 10:12

    Bread and butter indeed
    That which I'll always need
    The bread the baker will knead
    With fat that the sheep will bleed

    ReplyDelete
  2. Noble☝🏽22 August 2020 at 10:13

    Bread and butter indeed
    That which I'll always need
    The bread the baker will knead
    With fat that the sheep will bleed

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

visit next time for more

Popular posts from this blog

WHEN I GROW UP

Now I don’t know what to think, but some day it will all be in ink. I look without seeing, am I even a human being. To me, everything exists without meaning. My language is a cry, but I only calm myself with a smile. Today I take milk, but tomorrow I will break bones. Now am wrapped in silk, but soon I will wear clothes. Hmm! They leave me in pampers, am now among toddlers. Both the young and old handle me. Love and admiration are all I can see. Sometimes how hurtful it can be, especially when bathed by the geriatric. I have no option than to accept their plea. In fact a little smile does the trick. I am now a boy but frankly, am coy. I can’t even cook but I can eat yolk. Where is all the tenderness, where is all the care? How come all this harshness, why all these snare? My ideas are not significant, as tiny as an ant. All my vocals create fun, commonly ignored with laughter. I hate this pan; maybe, I should sound louder. But my cry is an unnoticed plea When shall I be free, I wish I ...
Post a Comment
Read more

YOUR own PEN

Something mostly divine, Sometimes, it's ours to define. Unlike the plant called Vine, Destiny seldom has pine. And it is our duty to prune and refine. From the feet till we see the spine. It may be a good omen, To which we shout Amen. It might have a fault to mend or dirt to filter, Which might make us think that God did falter. But we can write our own destiny. Yes, we always do. Remember that road you used to the mill, The particular person you talked to, Has it not been your own will? When you wanted to learn, Even when in prayer you did yearn, You took that training seriously, And you passed out successfully, That was your own destiny. That was your pen on paper. When you write, no one can alter. I am the secretary of the God you don't know. Now wait while I print yours out to show. Written down by you as white as snow.
Post a Comment
Read more