To trade quarrel for carol,
To spare jingle, jungle.
The end of Christmas tree.
The end of Artist; free.


I was wandering
Around Pymmes park
Glad when I saw
Three fish and lark
One flew, others too
And I never wondered why.


If you want to weigh the power of man, give him love.
If you want to measure his height in follies, then make him a ruler.


I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a black American man.

A black American man whose angry mouth is prest
Against the sweet earth’s flowing breast;

A black American man that looks at God all day,
And lifts their bony arms to pray;

A black American man that may in summer wear
A nest of golden necklace around his neck;

Upon whose bosom some white men will slay;
Who intimately lives with pain.

Poems are made by fools like this lad,
But only God can make a black American man.


Well done Ol’ Blighty;
I suppose at least,
When the suffering comes,
The poets, bards and griots,
Shall finally be your best pal eh?
Like in the good Ol’ days.


And the Queen said to me,
How about you?
What do you see?
And then I replied;
I can’t see the devil,
But I see humans and what humans do.
Ain’t nothing new,
When all is blue.



Never in the field of human affection
Had so much been given for so few attention
Never in the field of human affection
Had so much been given for so few attention
Winston Boy
Oh! There he is,
Packing, quietly,
You could mistake a clock ticking
For a cricket cricketing when around him.

But I swear!
Nobody knows what’s on this boy’s mind,
Nobody sees what he’s been picturing.

“We all make a living by what we get,
But we make life by what we give.
In some special circumstances,
This special circumstance,
Winston Boy will have to earn a living
Before he earns enough living to give”

“Where is your family?
Where are your loved ones?” someone uttered,
Whilst he went on crossing the channel
“Well they say no man can be a prophet
In his own country and so I left and here I am
Come on embrace me!
I am your brother!”
Now whilst he kept on talking,
In his left pocket laid the prose of the magnificent Orwell,
His right hand embraced a battered
Guitar borrowed,
“Borrowed from me!”
Come to think about it, I think a few years ago
I heard him talk about how God blessed an eagle with 54 stars.
And so maybe he’s gone, he’s gone wondering
Around looking for his kind of star
But even stars
If we think about it, even beautiful stars
They tend to shoot through the night
And you will never find them again!
Never and never and never again!
And so don’t you judge Winston Boy,
Don’t you ever judge Winston boy

Cause one day this boy might be the man,
Though clearly nobody knows when or how
One day this boy will stand in front of a pulpit
As the world gives him but a minute
And there he will tell the world
Where he’s been and how
Underground to upper ground in the depths of
I will surely survive
He shares his story with a cup of tea streaming from his eyes
One day this boy will be fine
One day this boy will be fine
So you better watch out now that day might be today!


Lately I’ve been searching, searching for answers
I walk around the boulevards, looking for magicians
With a cold feet, black coat full of arms
Outstretched and a leading voice
And I can’t help but shout at the top of my lungs
Who is next in line to get hurt?
Who is next in line to get speared?

Bad mouth, bad habits
Now leads icicles growing out me hair
Our past I’d guaranteed you if you’d stay with me
Your tomorrow will be endlessly free

Don’t know what it was that had made you to come by
Though I know God created me beautifully
But don’t you know beauty will forever kill
Who is next in line to get hurt?
Who is next in line to get speared?

I am sorry
I can see our future
It isn’t so bright
There isn’t any light

Who is next in line to get hurt?
Who is next in line to get my spear?

And so I wait
I wait for my next prey
I wait.


Woman, why are you looking at me?
Woman, what are you looking for?
Here the nation’s plea to hear
How our down and fall came about
And woman, don’t close your eyes
Let’s be fair, we stand no more chance
And I am done
These times are precious times
Only for the people and I

Woman, the truth is here
They ought to see it clear
Excuse-me, I’m in a middle of a song
Right after two years long
In between different sheets
Far beyond deceit,
Dancing through the streets of infidelity
And oh woman, don’t close your eyes
Let’s be fair, we stand no more chance
And I am done
And these moments are precious moments
Only for the people and I

I sing, write, speak for the people and I
Cause they are down
And we are done
And I am done
So these moments and times are precious
For the people and I


Where is your son?
Where did he go?
Where is your son?
Where did he go?
Sweet Sugar Stranger
Where did he go?
I am asking you, where did he go?
Where did you leave him?
Do you know where he is now?
Do you care?
Go look for your son
For even he who has no son looks for a different
Kind of son to be their son
Little Clementine is no tea and croissant