by Oyindamola Shoola
You are everything men are taught to want;
everything they say, we'll need to be complete.
You cook "fire,"
even Jacob would desire,
and when you clean,
it's like hiding a crime scene.
You speak God, love, and money
with a voice as sweet as honey.
You know how to turn up in the streets
and with a love for books, share some wits.
Folake, I can praise heavens out of you
and spend the sky to prove my woo
but every time I confess my love,
you dip them in my anxious sweat to dissolve.
Yesterday, you replied with "thank you,"
and on Sunday you said, "Jesus loves you too."
On the days you give me a taste of hell,
you respond with "aww," "k," and "oh well."
Note on plagiarism:
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