“No Roses from my mouth” is a reminder for you to “man up”

You are a woman
And I think about you.
Yes, I am a man
But who am I without what you do.

You mothered me
To some it is nine months
But the roots that support the shoot
The roots to this bold tree
Stand the test of months.

This day is far from celebration
It is not even a yardstick
But rather an honour and practical recognition
Of the warrior in you as a woman
To some of us
On planet Earth,
who find it hard to pick
The false from the truth

To some of us
On Earth still drinking from bottles of ignorance.
A blindness that drunken (us) to patriarchy.
A belittling monarchy.
That sits us in unsettling illiteracy.

To some of us
On Earth, despite the thirst quenched from a pot of brew of knowledge
Still choose to sit with our legs widely open
For our scrotums to caress the ground
And our penises’ hunger bound
As we hold talks
On how a woman’s office
Situates in the kitchen
And like “He”chicken
We ought to mount on them

Isn’t is such a shame?
That some males
Smoke weed of impotency of the brains

Shouldn’t we rise?
Now more than ever
And play our roles as best men.

The warrior in a woman.
She concieved you
It could have been our of pleasure or pressure.
But you were born.
You sat in her womb.
She could have had you torn.
A woman is a voice.
A voice that commands
Demands. . .
Compels. . .
Implores. . .
A woman is a song
Whose lyrics should be memorised by a man
A woman is a poem
That ought to be recited by a man
If indeed her office is in the kitchen
Then the man is part of the recipe
A woman a prose
“No Roses from my mouth”
Is a reminder for you to man up.