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Who knew that the little he-goat will grow up
to rape his mother,
And even make children with his grandmother?
Ande, don't follow me down memory lane,
This rugged path will prick your feet.
This naked pictures of tattered childhood,
This view is not good for you.

Did we not build sand houses as children
To destroy it with adult feet?
Bit by bit innocent childhood suffered defeat
To the unnoticed passing
of rain, sun, and harmattan.
No matter how canny a man is
He can't be cunning than Time.

A man should not be judged by his rights and wrongs,
He is a mere tool to Fate!
It would be boring if as a caterpillar
We were told we will grow into winged butterflies.
The metamorphosis of clairvoyance
is the picture of a caricature
In the eyes of an ordinary man.

But you Ande, there is a fire in your eyes,
A burn that cannot burn a bun,
A fire that does not consume.
Let's hope the evil that accompanies age
Doesn't turn off this fire of hopes
In the eyes of the youths.

They say where the raven goes, the darkness follows,
You can't tell what chicken is a cock
until it climbs its mother's back.

Review Request (Intensity): 
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Review Request (Direction): 
What did you think of my title?
How was my language use?
What did you think of the rhythm or pattern or pacing?
How does this theme appeal to you?
How was the beginning/ending of the poem?
Is the internal logic consistent?
Editing stage: 


I see that no one has bothered to comment on this even after 5 days. I shall remedy that. First a couple of errors.
(1) Stanza 2, line 7: I think you omitted the word "more"
(2) Stanza 3, line 2: there is no need for the exclamation mark as this is not an exclamation.

I enjoyed the repeated idea of cross-generational incestuous coupling. Perhaps the last 2 lines would read better as:

You can't tell which chicken is a cock
until it climbs to probe its mother's crack.

Although I have to say the last couplet is not the world's best rhyme. Maybe a slightly vulgar improvement might be:
You can't tell which chicken is a chap
until it tries to prod its mother's flap.

Best wishes from

Poet(ess) to the Stars

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