The Revenge Of Carthage

Come back to Carthage in the summertime.
I plead, reading again my plundering letter
that gives a makeshift town a classic name.
All history is only down a country road;
why not stand by Carthage where Carthage stood?

The figs are ripe and the wine is red and flowing,
and my lovers of rich relics are approaching,
the Arab from the sands, the Roman from the seas.
I hear their horns of onset and plenty blowing;
I receive their smiling, swordless messengers.
But the Carthage of summertime is spoiling for blood.

My makeshift town mutters beside its waters.
I have put away my instrumental letters.
My archenemy rests where my plundered Carthage stood.