At a single wave,
the waist of a lass would twist like a dancing tree.
Her waist bead would dangle and make sounds of an African culture.
Her moulded calabash would fall from her head and breaks.
She would wail in non-English language
And bends to pick the broken pieces.
Single lads would hide beneath the long bushes,
and watch in excitement,
The tiny waist that hangs on a large and lush posterior.
The loud and distracting voice of a town crier
would sweep the eyes of these lads
and make their minds waver from such charming creature.
They’ll move home with their hoes and woven baskets,
Humming and whistling songs of the gods.
Night would come,
another day of a calm primitive African society would be gone
and prepares itself for the coming of our fearful modern days.