You could get stuck in this town
Be careful with your entry
False-fronted shops, almost empty
Murrum streets flanked by deep retainers
Veils of lake flies, drape verandas and corners

Indian fusion blares from windows left ajar
Over there I saw the cremation, watching from afar
Man laid out on bed of fire, flames flapping upwards
He sat erect before burning to ashes
As huge hippos snorted in the inlet

February rains will come, it is foretold
Chickens will put laying on hold again
The dock over there will flood
Cutting us off from boat and road
Isolated, shoes will grow mold

This is the open air market
Tin roof, din of rain, rain, rain
Cattle driven on hoof
Round Lake Victoria, tough as hide
Meat spread out beside the millet
Every mound two shillings a pound
Buy the fillet

Down by the lake is the British Club
Where expats drink whisky and beer
Play billiards and golf in teams
Complain that hippos ruin the greens
They talk of leaving here

There is the dispensary, treatment for dysentery
Drink salty IV's to save you pain
Hope antibiotics are not dead to cure
Denatured by heat or moisture
From weeks of rain, rain, rain

Lucky to survive a clawing place
We are young and full of rosiness
This town burns in our beings forever
You, visitor, go quickly. Do not linger.
The incessant rain will start
You will not escape for months, maybe never