your two succulent breasts give my hormones frisson.
There is no dubiety
– you call it unpiety –
how each time sultry you give my hopes langour
for you insist it’s untill marriage.
Bimpe, now is the time
you and me can enjoy the beatitudes of our sinful love
and enjoy more the guilt of our innocence.
But you’re shyster
and your pretence ain’t innocence.
But my peter wants to visit your vagina
for greener pastures!
Your tight skirts show the crease
of your panties
and i’ve tried smoothening it in my heart
but your ibadi dances away the heat of my sinful celibacy.
When you walk,
rivulets of milk flow in your pneumatic breasts
and i want to suck your nipples like two feeding bottles in the hands of a wealthy tot.
Your hip is a perfect architecture of organic brackets
enclosing the pleasures of Eden.
What if marriage is a mirage?
Let me tell you something real quick:
if my wish is a sin
then your being nubile is a sin.