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Slightly below the Equator, |
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Beneath a scalding sun |
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Waits a counterfeit paradise |
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And sure oblivion, |
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Or so they told our hero, |
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In 1925, |
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As he went back to the river |
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That ate so many alive. |
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It starts as a trickle in the clouds and snow, |
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With more than an America still to go. |
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Steamrollers into the sea, |
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Wide as New York City. |
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Passable only in the worst of the heat, |
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In the winter it rises 40 feet. |
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The green hell is a heady trap, |
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So dont fall down |
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The hole in the map. |
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Youd bet such a forest would feed you, |
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You would lose that bet. |
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You thought you learned about fortitude |
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As a gentleman cadet! |
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The painful pranks, the floggings, |
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Were bliss compared to this, |
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As you hack through the lianas |
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Where hanging boas hiss. |
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There are bugs thatll kill you with a single bite, |
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Turn your cotton britches to threads in a night, |
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Homicidal gnats no bigger than seeds, |
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Cynanide-squirting millipedes. |
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Still you know you love it and you wont be swayed |
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Though you never are fully unafraid. |
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Hits your heart like a thunderclap, |
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So dont fall down |
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The hole in the map |
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Back in the comfort of Devon, |
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You sweeten your tea and sigh |
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Free now to sleep till eleven, |
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And watch the old world go by. |
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You smile at your civilized heaven, |
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And say that at last, youll stay, |
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But close by the gates |
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The Amazon waits |
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To quietly drag you away. |
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Drag you away, |
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Back to the river. |
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Its passable only in the worst of the heat, |
|
In the winter it rises 40 feet. |
|
The green hell is a heady trap. |
|
Dont fall . |
|
There are bugs thatll kill you with a single bite, |
|
Turn your cotton britches to threads in a night, |
|
Homicidal gnats no bigger than seeds, |
|
Cynanide-squirting millipedes. |
