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Under the thatched umberalla, |
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they lounge by the milky green sea. |
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Through cupped hands white sands funnel down |
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unto the tops of her feet. |
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Across the sea is Africa. |
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The placid sea, |
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dappled with light fromthe setting sun. |
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The Costa Del Sol skyline |
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is littered with construction cranes. |
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Resorts are multiplying |
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as Europeans flock to the sun. |
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Young Germans are chilling out |
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on the whitewashed verandas. |
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They've got Kruder and Dorfmeister |
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kickin on a Band and Olafson. |
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Ooh la la, |
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Across the sea is Africa. |
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Ship lights blink, |
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trancing west, port of call in America. |
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People come out after nighfall. |
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Locals are scanning for girls. |
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Children have the run of the boardwalk. |
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They ziparound the chrome scooters. |
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The elderly enjoy their ice cream, |
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part of their all-inclusive deal. |
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The air thick with languages, |
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the air caresses the skin. |
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Across the sea is Africa. |
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Ship lights blink trace the east. |
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Port call in Tunisia. |
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The pulse of the discotech can be heard from the shore. |
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The beach is illuminated with lights of motos and little cars. |
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The young will congregate |
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and move their bodies again, |
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while on the beach they stroll by barefoot |
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and hum that 80's tune. |
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Across the sea is Africa. |
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Ship lights blink, |
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trancing west, port of call in America. |