You said you hate tribal marks:
Hence, you got a damsel with a clean face.
You took her to the altar,
Solemn vows you uttered.
Later on, your seeds germinated in her,
She grew fat as she housed them.
She will changed from the hourglass you know
To a drum that houses water.
There is still a bitter pill
Which you must swallow.
You see that tummy
Which you call flat, smooth and sexy,
Shall soon become a land of tribal marks:
That’s what your seeds will do to her.
What you abhor so much
Will put smiles on her face:
They will remind her of her title:
Have you been told?
What you shy away from when checking a yam,
You shall meet grinning at you
At the water yam barn.