She was tall and toned with thunderous thighs.
Eyes like the night — a curvy figure so tight.
Her hips swayed when she walked,
A Southern bell when she talked.
As long braids flowed, in her hand she did hold…
Men were caught up by her mystical power,
Her ebony skin they wished to devour.
The women all whispered then scampered away
To eat some… potato chips.
So they could feel better or know how to deal
With her likeness.
It’s triteness to think.
But she never did blink,
On the way to take a drink
Of her water.
Thirty-one years and now at her best,
With a mean corporate career,
Putting all to the test.
She was blessed.
So bad to the bone, on the day she was born.
Who could she be?
Special Agent to some.
Daughter to the moon.
Sister to the sun.
There can be only one…