Robin Graham


There's a sense of isolation
In a distant landlocked third-world nation
With mountain peaks and plains,
And forests where it rains.
It's called an "at-risk" area
From mosquito and malaria.
You have to boil the water
Eat only what you ought to.
And when you're driven to despair
More bored than you can bear,
You can spend hungover days
By drinking fermented Maize.
Bolivia! Bolivia!
Who would want to live here?

Go out in the country
Visiting peasantry
But if they accept plastic
It would be fantastic
For such sophistication
Isn't common in this nation.
In any cafeteria
You'll see that we're superior,
As I bring about a hush
With my battery tooth brush
And a banging of the pewter
When I take out my computer
With advanced graphic adapter
There's locally enrapture.
And for fun with anthropology
Take digital photography
With instant A4 printing out
They all spontaneously shout.

It warms my heart to see their joy.

They behave like I'm a saint
But for me alas there isn't
A thing that they can give to me.

They may have much and varied culture
And a little agriculture
They may have mountains, forests and lakes,
Ideal for weekend breaks,
But there is not even a tone
On my flashy mobile 'phone.
Bolivia! Bolivia!
I wouldn't choose to live here.

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