Lodging In Old Kazungula

As the wind flagellates heavily, I can smell cigarette smoke, Plunging like greased lightning before my nostrils, But there's a passive feeling about spending the night in old kazungula, Especially with a beer in hand And the aroma of hand rolled cigarette in the neighborhood. The sun softly petering out, The black sky latches on to it, This time I'm on the veranda fondling a bottle of antiquated Scottish wine, It's complimentary with the accomodations here, But you know wine improves with age but I improve with wine?? And finally, dewdrops fall down in disband, A convivial reception from the gods of this land, I run to the window, open it, and put out my head. Oh, it's glorious! by good luck a beauteous waiter knocks on the door, An indefinitely short time of eye contact and we're already topping up! She's off tomorrow so we cruise in a ligneous dory to the other side of the river the next morning, One Zambia, one nation the people are volubly friendly and bubbling over with unexpected humour and high spirits, Except for one who ogled upon me, and went surly by, My shirt is still imbued with his scent! I will be guzzling Junta for the next two weeks, It's flavoursome and enlivening though the smell reeks, I've heard rumours that this kachilichili knocked down mighty oaks! But Sundays are times to imbibe energetic vitality from the devout book, I don't drink on Sundays!