Down to the plantation,
Goes her with my sense.
My eyes, seized spheres
Limp behind her dangling butt,
Dark appetites rise.
With agility, she plays her harp,
Wedging her supple waist
Among her people,
Who in men my race see a fiend beast.
Twenty and ten days flutter,
In her bag I drop extra metal,
She knows not why.
If Titanics descend,
Can not a Master’s heart,
For his slave melt?
© Namaganda