A doggerel series
about the countries of the world.
Colombia.
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.
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