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I went to the market
To buy half a kobo of salt
My husband poured it away
Hard earned salt spilled on the floor
I opened my mouth to talk
My spouse nearly beat me to death
Iyo-yo-yo yo, hear the woman cry

I ask my wife to draw closer
Come and give me a child
She turned and stepped aside
I dipped my legs in a stream
The stream turned to an ocean
My travails are many, so many
Iyo-yo-yo yo, hear the man cry

There is no soup in the pot
There is no child running around
The house is empty and dry
Road construction took our land
Hospital gave us heavy bill
Estrangement sits between us
Iyo-yo-yo yo, hear the couple cry

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Editing stage: 


Whadda ya know. This has a queer antique feeling to it that I like a lot. This is just me of course, but I think the poem would have benefited from a strict rhyme scheme as that folk song I mentioned. Without rhyme it works very well and brought a smile to me face, but I did miss the rhyme.

W. H. Snow

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. Percy Bysshe Shelley

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Wesley gives fucking great crit.
The only slight difference is that I would focus more on the meter than the rhyme, but both wouldn't hurt.

Neopoet Directors

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