Come love, hold my hand softly, let us wade
Like dust through this dry grass, bare boundless grass,
Grass that breaks out into tree spots that shade,
For our relief, all moments that’ll surely pass.
Can you not hear the false acacia prattle?
Yes, ‘Karibu’ is welcome in Swahili.
In the rooms you can hear good women whisper
‘But not in this cold water’ and toast should be crisper.
See that school girl now, how she smiles freely,
When it rains she’ll be raped, or sold for cattle.
The carrion king in his royal glide,
Bald pate spotted with rotting flesh, froze,
Tucked in his lump of throat, and marked with nods
The moan of lions twined in post coital repose.
In nearby huts, the militant Maasai’s rhyme
With snot and treacle together contrived
To our taking in of all trinkets that chime.
The man with the camera twists time and light,
So well suffuses with meaning and might,
Ox heads, or the hind jambs of wildebeests.
But in the flint of doe eyes will I feast?
When she smiles I am sure to lose my heart at least.
Come love, let us lie under this red rock of life
Here is the cradle of man, the womb of strife
We can sleep now, dust in dust, gorged in its shade
Tonight, you can show me how god was made.
Like dust through this dry grass, bare boundless grass,
Grass that breaks out into tree spots that shade,
For our relief, all moments that’ll surely pass.
Can you not hear the false acacia prattle?
Yes, ‘Karibu’ is welcome in Swahili.
In the rooms you can hear good women whisper
‘But not in this cold water’ and toast should be crisper.
See that school girl now, how she smiles freely,
When it rains she’ll be raped, or sold for cattle.
The carrion king in his royal glide,
Bald pate spotted with rotting flesh, froze,
Tucked in his lump of throat, and marked with nods
The moan of lions twined in post coital repose.
In nearby huts, the militant Maasai’s rhyme
With snot and treacle together contrived
To our taking in of all trinkets that chime.
The man with the camera twists time and light,
So well suffuses with meaning and might,
Ox heads, or the hind jambs of wildebeests.
But in the flint of doe eyes will I feast?
When she smiles I am sure to lose my heart at least.
Come love, let us lie under this red rock of life
Here is the cradle of man, the womb of strife
We can sleep now, dust in dust, gorged in its shade
Tonight, you can show me how god was made.
