There she goes with her majestic grace
And her bosom I want to embrace
Like the shepherd his sheep while they graze
On a bent and sloppy terrace.

I always wish to see her on my way home
Like Catholics wish to see the pope in Rome
But no matter how much my heart roam
I will always think of her while I lie on my foam

With each day her tenderness grows
Like the river it would flow
And nothing has so much light to show
Just the way her smiles glow.

Though angel-like girls live in America
And beauties spread all through Africa
Yet not compares an inch to you the black queen of Africa,
My dearest Monica.