Herbert is down the block
At his hang-out spot
But when dusk falls, he will
Climb home-made stairs
To his sanctuary
And stars above will shine.
At the spot, you'll see
white cups that kiss eager lips
The color of cream, or mahogany
Some are as black as ackee seed with sheen.
These men, they dream; and lament their inner scenes
And governmental extremes
Their dusty streets are paved clean
Belize's haves and have not sometimes raves
On tell-tale paths, where loafers
Retirees, and foreign folks meet.
Do you know of a hang-out spot?
One dies, and their casket
As a matter of fact, will cruise...
That bees the end of that.
Copyright © Iris Elizabeth Sankey-Lewis | Year Posted 2015
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