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She is one big juicy mama, six feet of solid meat,

                                    runs the grill at the Reggae Club in Oakland,

                                    cooks the Guyana dishes with a loud drum laugh

                                    and a smile that catches hearts.

                       

She has those big bazookas and an enormous bomb of a big black butt,

                                    and I’m watchin’ her simmerin’ moves, standin’ at the bar

                                    sippin’ a Bud Light, drinkin’ outa the bottle,

                                    ‘cause I’ve seen how they wash the glasses.

 

This Guyana mama walks my way, pushes those meditational tits

                                    into my flamin’ face, and says, “C’mon mon, let’s dance.”

                                    Dejected, I tell that bubble-assed delight I didn’t know

                                    how to dance.

 

She puts her large sportin’ hands on those delicious lookin’ Caribe hams,

                                    spreads those cooking thighs, and asks me,

                                    “Mon, c’n ya fuck?”

 

“Yes, of course,” I say, in my deepest, most manly way

                                    “Then ya c’n dance,” says she,

                                    “Jus ack like you fuckin’ mon.”

 

She takes her hot, tropical hands, pulls me onto the floor,

                                    wraps round me like I was a kitchen god’s gift,

                                    envelopes my head in her slow, sensual Caribbean heartbeat

                                    like an equatorial night sky enfolding me, and

                                    we danced.