DELILAH | Chronicles by Precious James | Poetry | PROSTIFESSIONAL SERIES

Don't judge a book by its cover,
but mom always said “cover your legs so you won't be judged by a book”.                                                                                              
She's a cook. Well, me too.                                                                         
She prepares awesome meals, while I offer sumptuous deserts.  
She cleans up the plates of men, while I stain the beds of customers with sweat and colorless larva.
She serves them on trays and on thier tables,                             
while I make their bed my tray; and their room, my table.  
I am food and dinner is served while she's hot.                          
A table for two, lets dine.                                                           
There's not a meal mom can't cook— in the kitchen;        
And there's not a fruit you can't eat from me — as in Eden.
I was once called Eve, leading every Adam to come down, after standing arrogantly erect, like a black lucifer or something.       
I made Lucifer fall.                                                                            
Took him to the climax of the mountain with pride.                
And you can guess, he came down with shame.                    
All on me. Well, my only comment,                                         
business is boomimg.                                                                               
I'm a lecturer without degree,                                                                   
coz I school men who have PhD in everything but self-control when they see me:                                                                                      
Doctors, priest, soldiers, policians, alhajis, family, friends and even foes.

I make school fun, I make the law court funny, and I make the youths commit fornication.
Well, it’s not a sin as far as it puts food on your table, right?
And if you are the usual food, then someone has to eat you.

Pastor Samson the great deliverer, died while preaching on the pulpit. I meant to say, my pull-pit.
When he saw me, I was the angel his wife wasn't.
When I opened my legs, saw the gates of hell his wife isn't.
Men don't judge the bible by its cover, so I should close my legs so I won't be judged by a book.
But what else can I say? Business is booming!                           
My name,    

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