"Ohhh so you're the writer...well, good luck!"

It was over the phone-

The trauma,

Foolery,

National

Disappointment,

Big fish

Wannabe.

I made it in Yanki Town,

I am somebody,

Here,

A name,

I call myself;

I’z only me

Who could write,

chupidee.

Two books

Published.

You see me?

You called me?

Lucky lil’ thing.

Me-

The expert.

Me-

My universe.

Me-

Jus’ me.

Lovin’ all part of me.

I sedin’ kiss

Like Kisskadee.

Yuh fuh real?

Nah I

Caa

Believe!

Yess-

I’z d bess.

Say it

Now:

Mirror, mirror,

On the wall...

You know I’z d’

Fairest of we all.

Come on Cairi,

Too many be-

on

Our shores,

Shutting doors.

Everything for themselves-

A pack of whores.

Throw them back

And doh’ tack

back-

Poor polluted pond:

Overgrown

And conned-

Big

Fat

Foolish

Fish

using

the pond

To do their shit.

Desperately,

No doubt.

Cook them?

Too many

Starvin’...

For

I

An

I

To take on

This cap

I

Tal

I

sms

And

Sch

I

Sms.

“You there-

Voice

On the phone.

You know

I

An

I

To talk so?”

You,

Who

Shame

An

Cestory

And

His

Tory.

Who,

Divide

but

Nah rule.

JAH...

Save me.

Literature

Hijacked.

The elite

Of the

Colonized

Strike back.

Pappysho form.

Nothing new.

Jus’ copycat

Right tru.

Poets starve,

Capitalists

reign.

Sell the ‘art’,

censored,

And feign,

You’re an artist, writer and Dame.

Let rise,

The spectacle.

Cheap creation-

carbon copy-

No big rev-el-a-tion.

Sit,

Market it.

Make popular,

Don’t shut up ever,

Or after:

Subliminal toolkit.

Churn it out.

Make a name.

Get a grant and

Buy your fame.

Join the line.

Serve nothing divine.

Worship yourself,

Offer no help.

To anyone

Who, may

Just

Have a

dream too.

So keep sep

arate.

Fake.

Pathetic

Epithet

Of

Crabs

crabbing in a

Bucket

cuz’ they can't make-

Or mate.