Brown paper packages come to mind here.
Like a Sri Lankan, 35 years,
Sold on a paper advertisement,
Traded by her parents.
Should I say brown paper packages
Tied up with string here?
Nah it rarely rains virgins here.
And it seems we are jinxed, our women
Are never love machines, SHHHH, that’s done
In secret in a bedroom in the dark
Just baby machines who when you stuff
Her with a heating rod, makes sugar babies
With caramel skin.
And still a brown woman
Is no brown paper package in string,
Nor is she the keeper of her ovaries,
Throwing curves balls every month.
Only a preservative of what is precious ,
The heart works that no paper can sell,
Only time can stamp.
And brown are the cinnamon quills
That you sprinkle on a cake
Or the brown sugar that always
Leaves an extra oomph factor on your tongue
And brown is the curry woman
Who will be traded by her parents
To flow like gravy on
A man’s coconut shell spoon.
