If I were to name,
I would name River Gambia
For it never changed colors, never blue or green
The waters are either brackish or bland; never idle
Its path is still easterly; never erred;
It never roared, because it opts to flood the rice paddy along its banks;
If I were to name
I will cull it, for being pure in its closure.
But it’s sad, that I will not
Because the road to the town hall is still soiled;
Saddles are everywhere, and I can be at bay
For not voting the loafer.