by Sherry Caayupan   Jan 16, 2016

A silver pot or a kettle,
i too wrecked this bottle,
as downstairs i stumble,
yet left me not fickle;
caliente, my pot was struck,
by my hand that's plucked,
a hundred or a thousand buck,
i have more than enough of luck;
no pain nor hurtful heat,
i retain unscold nor even beat,
caliente, this pot claimed neat,
but had me waiting filthy in the seat;
caliente, curve of this pot,
strike me a forgiving hot,
but this heart remained unclot,
sweep me off with what's true or what's not...


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