Sista girl got it going on, she rocking that candy apple red on one side and cinnamon brown spirals on the other, hair shining bright under the sun. She stood at a right angle with her baby girl perched on one hip, formula, diapers and bottles dangling in the other. Fingernails colored rainbow, covered in diamond rings, gold, silver a like. Gucci cross mangling with hello kitty tattooed on her inner thighs. Her lips perk, the cherry bayberry scent garnishing her naval cavity, the silver eye shadow laid tightly spread across her eyelid. Her skirt barely six inches contrasts the linear measurement of her body, high heels click, clicking and tapping.

Sista girl got it going on, eyes turning, the sound is heard coming from the direction of Mamma-D's house, where she just left her baby girl. The guys pack and gather around for the spectacle; while young girls envy her, worshiping her robust beauty. As she walks around hips and legs dance, moving side to side in a smooth enchanting motion. Caution she said, "this cookie is coming through: who wants first". The guys hove and push amongst one another, climbing and crawling, mouth drooling and cooling their lust. The scene was a menagerie of fooling, gluing on undressing her and felting her, then proceeding to melting her.

Sista girl got it going on, seven kids in total, seven deadly sins, each being a reflection of rapt, eradicating a defunct wrecked. "Are you my daddy” they demanded, asking, waiting for an answer. Their mother falling victim to the streets, nearly surviving on the welfare checks she receives every month. Being a high school drop out she spread her legs apart for the jollification of love, ridicule by the glee of intercourse. Her eyes roll back in her head, moaning as she reaches her climactic peak. Merrymaking, there goes her cherry, only to be a mockery, even a hilarity cause she just gave him gave a permanent gift, a wonderful gift. A gift so dazzling it glows and twinkling, swimming, shearing its way, enabling, then embedding its self into the blood stream. Multiplying, then mass-producing.

Sista girl got it going on, a usual customer asked her "where you going"? She replied back don't worry I got you later for twenty. She clean up and got over to the other side of the street, walking in a girlish flamboyant matter into his car, never to be seen again. Her body discovered three weeks later, covered in blood, naked, rape and hammered to the ground, legs and arms laid apart in a crucifix. One less competition, the streets wouldn't miss her, she could always be replaced. Mamma-D cried broken down for the first time in twenty-five years, water-replenishing eyes dried out years earlier. Glistering, fire burning fueling the pain of a mother. Suffering in agony, despair constricting the flow, her memory pains at the thought of her daughter.

Sista girl got it going on, an under statement, the gift of life keeps on giving, her clients married men now carry the precious genetic code, unraveling it upon their wives. She had them twisted, those impractical moments now ingrain in the family tree, structured around one common link that flank. The gift didn't go away, it laid dormant ready to torment, fomenting the abundance, now profusion beyond the control of medicine, eradicating the millions, mutating and diversifying it self. No longer local, focusing internationally, with blacks on the forefront leading the way.

Sista girl got it going on, her seed harden and garden for life, memory trapped in the in-betweens, pervading slowly by slowly second by second, rife with false hopes.
Her time infuse beyond the control of modern date, hurling at anyone who might be listing. The human race finally found its match, hatching every minute the gift is the new binary form, having two parts with both being equally fatal. Packed up, bundled up here is the gift willingly given without any payments, it becomes the new endowment bestow with the highest honor granting access to any and every person. So if you ever wonder where did it come from now you know Sista girl got it going on.