I Don’t Think It’s Cocomo[1]

Where the trade winds blow and a trace of spice sails in the air, and angels in sunglasses lie tanning on a tawny beach hoping their zest for life isn’t noticed in the wrong circles and the frothy spume from a turquoise sea sends out briny tendrils to caress their toes: that’s where I’d like to be, but I don’t think it’s Cocomo.