|
From the foggy woggy banks
|
of the Limpopo River,
|
there come the sounds of
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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
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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 be their Wongo King ---
|
If only I knew the song to sing.
|
Wongo.
|
|
|
|
-----------------
|
Wild Women Of Wongo
|
| The Tubes |
