In the Ivory Coast, where rebels were trying to unseat the reigning president for life who had lost the last election but refused to leave, a group of rebel men were seen to be smashing a polished marble stone the president had set up in the town square, telling the people it was a magic stone that kept him in power. When asked why they were chopping away at the stone, the rebels said that only with the destruction of the magic stone would the president be removed from office. In the meantime, the bodies piled up as the two sides warred against each other, and no one cared, for it was far away Africa, and we had better things to do than care about people who believed in magic stones.

The power of the magic stone

Holds people in its sway

It boils the blood and melts the bone

It turns night into day

And curses all who dare to gaze

Upon its polished face

And counts the names and counts the days

Of each demolished race

But no one cares, for sad to say

They’re poor, and black, alone

They do not have the means to pay

No kindness have they known

The curse is riches, oil and gold

And not the magic stone

Who cares the bodies growing cold

I’ve got my new iPhone

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