Africa

Africa

Drunken spiders from the gold rush
When guitar genesis turned rusty
But Madagascar a strummer’s waltz
On wings of diamond birds
Whose songs are in the native tongue
With French peacock plumage
To court their wild sisters
With graffiti of street souls splashed
On ghetto walls whose concrete reality
Is wood carved into memory staffs
As they watch oil-laden ships sail to the horizon
With wealth, only Croesus will know