I mentioned before that I wrote a poem about the first time I went to Ceuta and the terrible fiasco that that trip turned out to be. To give a little background, Ceuta is a city about an hour from where I live. It is geographically located on the continent of Africa, but politically it belongs to Spain. Because it technically belongs to Europe, you must go through all normal border-crossing procedures in order to enter. It also uses the euro, not the Moroccan dirham. To further complicate the situation, it is technically illegal to take any amount of Moroccan currency out of the country, so Spanish banks won't (or can't) exchange money for you.
With that in mind, here goes:
The words don't seem to come tonight,
But I want so very much to write.
To record this day to remember hence,
how I came and went across the fence.
I was all ready, or so I thought.
But after the border, I saw I was not.
Not a whole lot of the other side's bills.
And my credit card in the other side's hills.
The plazas and parks where I should be at play,
turned up their noses and said, "Go away!"
So I turned on my heels and I went on my way.
One long hour home brings an end to this day.
And maybe tomorrow I will want to go back.
But I'll make sure my credit card's packed in my sack!
With that in mind, here goes:
The words don't seem to come tonight,
But I want so very much to write.
To record this day to remember hence,
how I came and went across the fence.
I was all ready, or so I thought.
But after the border, I saw I was not.
Not a whole lot of the other side's bills.
And my credit card in the other side's hills.
The plazas and parks where I should be at play,
turned up their noses and said, "Go away!"
So I turned on my heels and I went on my way.
One long hour home brings an end to this day.
And maybe tomorrow I will want to go back.
But I'll make sure my credit card's packed in my sack!
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