by Amit Parmessur
Something’s rocking,
sitting near those wild rocks
And you know, it’s a mosaic of magic
Really, there’s something magnetic near the wild rocks
Tender fingers chopped from long lady fingers
from the green garden where stars grow
Toes cut from the juicy stem of red sugar cane
O fresh fragrant Frangipani,
your hair’s like the finest spaghetti
curled by the warm breeze of Pointe d’Esny
Your grace exudes all religions
You’re a peppy reggae
Skin like cream churned in local industries
Legs from the dust of lovely dodos
You’re like a soft bouquet of trochetia
Someone’s rocking, sitting near those wild rocks
Someone needs to feed you with sincerity
Someone needs to cuddle you with true love
Someone must become your morning mirror,
evening tea and nocturnal sorbet
There must be majestic magic in your veins
I wonder whose private property you’ll be
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