Spitfire

​She’s a wild cat from the hottest tropical part

But its heat can’t compare to this African heart.

On the cain-chair beside the basketball court

Legs crossed, rays twinkling from her shipshape hat.
Brown skinny cat, she wore a black top to match

Her oily long shinny hairs, rolled up like a ratch

Smiling “I’m your type but not everybodys match”

Classic from the past to the future slow or in flash.

When she smiles, the guys tongues come out

Not a baller but for her you will take a shot

She’s the type, you pump the brake on sight

In the dark she lights a dreamers heart.

Smooth… her laps has no lapse, 

But could make the dreamer lost in relapse

She had this continence, ‘come hold me in your arms’…

But she’s a spitfire, go if you can roll the dice.
Arrogance goes with it, like the rim and tire

In a dreamland, she’s an overachieved desire

Clapped and smiled often but she’s a spitfire

The keys to her heart is not destroyable by fire.

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