Morocco.

The heat was sweltering:
the young boy had gone to Gibralta
with his father, and his friend.
It was enough to make one falter -
the Rock of Gibralta -
and the monkeys were thieving brigands.

There were caverns inside
deep as the Earth,
deep, as the Earth;
stalagmites and stalactites
descended like calcium limbs
in the making, without forms.

You can buy cheap cigarettes there -
in fact, anything that sweetens your fancy.
Perfumes, rum, sweets, electronics
(all at a reasonable price).
Apparently, the Spanish want it back.
Wouldn't that be nice?

The young boy was taken high -
high as the Rock would yield -
and he looked out through a viewfinder.
Like a hazy, lost world,
across the Mediterranean
he could see Morocco,

with its bazaars,
and boy prostitutes,
and trick-performing capuchins,
and high-standard hashish,
and its shanty shacks....
He bet it was a red dream in that heat.

Of course, the boy didn't really think that -
couldn't:
he thought merely:
'My! Isn't that beautiful!'
That'd make a neat screensaver
or a heavenly life-saver -
those mountains, and that sweeping shore.