Yes lord! Yes!

Every woman has a Man,
a real man-flesh and blood,who lives in her head.
He loves her jealously,
stares at her like she is magic,
cuddles her forever,with his bare six pack chest.

That man has a face,
Her first love who removed her panties under a tree
only to laugh at her funny looking bean,
her first crush – the one whom she caught rubbing his ‘things’ on some willing behind in a bend over jam session at Havana club Nyeri,
Her second love-the one who got away-the one she run after only for words to escape her lips, the one she build her life’s castle around, only for him to demolish them like Kidero’s men at night,
or in my case-Harold House Moore,oh bless the seed that splashed him to life.

That man adores her,
walks behind her to bless her sway,
That man humps her not! oh no he does not!
He takes her down- gently
lays her down
marks his presence on her- lips kiss,tongue lick,palms cup and fingers…walk,
as if to say, I was here-there-everywhere!
that man will love her grey hair
Her running skin,
till death…not even death will part Her from Him,
on a bright Saturday morning , passing next to her grave
you may hear spirit mourn softly,
you must conclude-It is  the man in her head


Here lies Harold House Moore, damn the picture has me hot and bothered already, lord have mercy!

House Moore

Ambani Photography

Harold House Moore Picture sourced from Google.



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