Father I pray for Rita
The days are going by without her cruise missile!

I’ve found mine
May she find hers!

I hate to see her laugh her laugh alone!
Let hers come to her from the pentagons of cupid!

It is the students of the wayward angel
That dine alone
And you have redeemed her from their ways

Let that rock from which her granite
Came come to her in no time
Then grind their breaths at your
Prehistoric mill

And mould one true being to dwell
On your hills
And bring true comfort to we of
The valley

by Servio Gbadamosi

Other poems of GBADAMOSI (3)

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