They are like wrinkled white raisins
Falling in from the sky,
Looking for a fling before they die,
From the North they drop in,
Upon our beaches they descend. ..
Blown in like colorless leaves detached
By the Western Wind,
Affecting, infesting, infecting,
Even at times ingesting
Our young African men,
Money flows where ever they be,
In Tunis, Cape Town, Mambassa or Nairobi...
Buying our young...
With food, cash and tailor made suits...
Without shame or modesty
Giving away...
Their white wrinkled sun dried fruit,
