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.

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