From the foggy woggy banks

of the Limpopo River,

there come the sounds of

Female ecstasy (I shiver),

Wet and wanton, their cries

caress by swollen ears, with building

fears, of this forsaken land of years.

Visions of furious fire-goddesses wielding

Blunt spits; figments of erotic escapades

with all branches of armed forces.

Surrounding, abounding,

they stoop to conquer with sighs and

anxious whispers in a slow, steady rhythm.



Wongo.

Wild Women of Wongo.

How does their song go?

Make a me wan mo, (Wild Women!)

Wongo.

No man can say no.

Wild Women of Wongo.

How does their song go?

Like this...



On the dank, steaming shores of Wongo;

its black sand beaches so bongo.

Patterned with leech-ridden creatures;

bodies branded with cicatrix features

that once screeched through the

Heart of the Congo.

Stacked and berserk

they tower and flail all about.

Wailing sounds in tongues only ancient

insects would understand or figure out.

Wild, willing, wenches; strutting and

struggling, as they yank hanks of hair,

rooting and rutting in heat,

as the earth heaves beneath their feet.

And so on and on the lores of Wongo go,

throughout the sands of time.

Singing their song of love, so rare,

To only the chosen ones who dare.

The course of events, time after time.

The tradition remains the same.

A bloodcurdling scream, one of pure

ecstasy, rings out; then it came ---

The ultimate sacrifice.

Their wasp waisted figures twitch and twine,

their sting is lethal, and I know I'm in for mine.

How can I resist this onslaught of love;

from over, from under, from behind and above.

I wish I could