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von Bambara

Creatures drag themselves on wet ground
Headed towards their burial ground
Years of climbing, years of dying
On the bones of ancient giants
And a hill forms from the death-sludge
Growing tall out of the hot mud
Then it hardens and it cools
A rich man settles down and digs a swimming pool
Ooh, huh!


Sculptures hold up a six-column portico
Priceless paintings nailed to trees
Cadillacs lined up like cavalry
And in the basement everything is painted red
Except the black disco balls
And the mirrors that line the halls
And out back there′s a man-made lake
With daybeds and tire swings
The town kids smoke meth and drink
Behind the scrap metal heap
The guesthouse lies hidden