I am the cook with all her pans
‘Master is this good?’
The Missus pretends she knows better
We all know power dwells in these hands

I am your jezebel with hips of gold
Lips of honey
And the lustrous scent of jasmine
Plough me
Before I get old

I am the one you go to for healing
See me
For ever leaning…
Into the after life

I am the Soul of the World
For from my loins nations sprang forth
And on my shoulders empires were built

So I must inquire…
Why does one shoot the hand that feeds thee?

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