Sing me a song of fine old ships,
Of fine old ships and the sea,
With hulls that ply the rolling waves
Like a claymore flying free;
I grew up in Africa,
I've been to Zanzibar
I've seen the great Rift Valley,
and it's western rim so far,
There are many smells of Africa
That I at times recall:
The quay side waft of tainted water
In the harbor pool,
Who is God's wee watchman
Chirping through the night?
Who let's us know that all is safe
That everything's alright?
It sits there on the sideboard
Or on the mantle shelf,
And after such a long time
You don't notice it yourself.
An Apartheid Story
If you visit Cape Town
There's one thing you must do,
I stood by the bridge
Gazing down at the greens
Of the trees on the banks
At the union of streams.
Seventy one's a number
It means driving pretty fast,
It's one year past three score and ten
And that you've made it past.
The season is a'turning there's a real change in the air
A chilly wind is blowing now, the branches all look bare,
In L.A. and in Florida palms rattle in the breeze,
And folk are loading cars and trucks to bring home Christmas trees.
The old city is darkly hid beneath night's heavy gown,
And nothing stirs below in our medieval town.
The sun's first rays like golden spears come shining through,
Pale first, then brighter, lighting trees and sparkling dew.