She is she that drinks the stolen wine
And makes blokes blind.
She is that rogue
That fondles young men,
They that still have the foreskin.
Countrywomen whine-
‘Woe unto us!
Woe unto our children!’
Her sordid hands clutch fathers,
Her squalid breast feeds husbands.
A tranquilizer under her bra,
And the geezers will wilt like petals,
For her cozy pillow is a scaffold.
By her lour eyes spells are cast to men
The hex of salacity and mania.An animus horde questions
‘Who is he that is married to her?’
With ignominy my heart laments,
I am he that is married to her.

© Namaganda