Sulaiman's work- my dream mausoleum

MY PERSONAL ASSISTANT

When tensed, angry or Lethargic, I call her,
with the touch of my finger.
She's there instantly,
beautifully dressed looking sexy.
From piling files and documents,
to fixing my appointments.
She's there patiently listening to me yell,
ever ready to help, take me away from hell.
She sings as she helps me for free,
making my relax, even when busy.
Now, completely dependent oh her,
for, she does them without any anger.
She's smart and brilliant,
Lucky to have her as my personal assistant. . !!

--> Sulaiman Sait

To know more about my assistant Check out the video below, about me working out with my assistant

TALE OF A SUCCESSFUL MANAGER, NARRATED BY A VICTORIOUS CAPTAIN

Football has been my passion from my teen age now, it was my dream to represent my country for the Olympics, had come true. It had been a couple of weeks since we players had returned back from our winter holidays and I was fortunate enough to be given the captain’s arm band , a huge responsibility of leading the team. All the players have been working on their fitness as the Olympics was round the corner, but the biggest worries were about the team sponsors and upcoming elections – where the new team manager was to be elected.

There has been media following us all through the day wanting to know what’s been cooking inside the management committee and why has there been a delay in finalizing the name of the final 20 players who would be making their way to the Olympics. But before all that, it was important to select a team manager.

Image source - Google images

My first day at college,
with a lonely mind and an empty baggage.
I sit next to a girl,
With a beautiful face and hair so curl.
I look at her in awe,
Unforgettable memory of what I first saw.
She pulls out her compact mirror,
Adjusts her makeup and hair right in order.
Seeing her so delighful,
I say, No doubt you look beautiful.

My first class of the day,
Desperate to focus straightaway.
Midst the class we had our introduction,
And I found her name was Margret Simon.
At the end of the class,
I notice this from my eyeglass,
She pulls out her compact mirror,
Adjusts her makeup and hair right in order.
Seeing her so delighful,
I say, No doubt you look beautiful.

Walking back home through the boulevard,
I realized some child cry hard.
With etched fear, I decided to see,
What it could actually be.
Peeping through the air vent,
Being able to see to a small distant.
I noticed a girl(barely teen), and a fat man,
Who was likely to be her headman.

I couldn't forget the face of that angelic girl,
Tear filled eyes, yet it silently glittered like pearl.
Hiding there,nothing much I could do,
But empathize, as her master hit her black and blue.
Cries of hunger and pain as she braved through the daylight,
Unable to stop the dirty men, who pounded and raped her every night.
Her innocent heart cried for survival,
For there was no way she could escape from this brothel.