A doggerel series about the countries of the world.
It seems as if slim Panama
Is like a hair fixed to the head
Of old Colombia. You draw
A line up to our South—we’re wed
By plain geography (of course).
In Bogota the capital,
We find in ways, I fear, the source
Of illegality. The hull
Of some vast pirate ship of drugs
That sails with some impunity—
And all controlled by vicious thugs
Who seek, of course, immunity.
But coffee beans are big, as well—
And jungles, mountains—beauties rare—
And here I fear that I could tell
I’d miss the coffee (taste so rare!)
If old Colombia should fall.
So here let’s cheer the coffee beans—
And curse the drugs, oh, one and all—
And revel in pure nature’s scenes.