Spitfire Poem by Vincent Onyeche

​She's a wild cat from the hottest tropical part
But its heat can't compare to this African heart.

On the cain-chair beside the basketball court
Legs crossed, rays twinkling from her shipshape hat.

Brown skinny cat, she wore a black top to match
Her oily long shinny hairs, rolled up like a ratch

Smiling 'I'm your type but not everybodys match'
Classic from the past to the future slow or in flash.

When she smiles, the guys tongues come out
Not a baller but for her you will take a shot

She's the type, you pump the brake on sight
In the dark she lights a dreamers heart.

Smooth... her laps has no lapse,
But could make the dreamer lost in relapse

She had this continence, 'come hold me in your arms'...
But she's a spitfire, go if you can roll the dice.
Arrogance goes with it, like the rim and tire
In a dreamland, she's an overachieved desire
Clapped and smiled often but she's a spitfire
The keys to her heart is not destroyable by fire.