MONROVIA 🇱🇷 BLUES.

By Henry Johnson Jr.

Don’t you want to be free?, the voices of a Native son, turned Americo says, “That’s what Monrovia blues is.”
In a deep stare, love blossoms.
They seek love, without the Americos or Tribal affiliations.
One worlds, a different nation.

Then, the Native man whispers, “Hold my hands, through all the frustrations.”
The world froze.
Baboons divided kola nut.
In a sad world, love overdose.

You see, her great-grandmother came from Tennessee.
She was the granddaughter of the Americos.
Freedom, then, was hard to see.
I’ve got the Monrovia Blues, the voices of the daughter of the Americos says, ’cause Sundaygar will love me forevermore, and nothing that he’ll decide to explore.”