Just past the Rastafarian berry tree Where bully beef boys tattooed their love’s names On the tree’s outstretched arms, A forgotten remnant lay In relic and rot, its air choked with damp mildew and dust.
Not wishing to join Garvey’s gang Or bow before Selassie’s seat, I left Jah’s clenched jig hanging, Allowed the inkers to indent incessantly, Going solo into the house of rubble.
What a treasure! From smudged, stale mascara, The aged beauty’s heavy, dim eyes Cast dim shadows on her rough, ***** neck On which I now trod barefoot.
Her necklace of knackered newspapers Hollered hoarsely through the overlying cardboard boxes, Lowly lisping, ”Sovereign shed my lady once was And shall forever more remain. Look not at her wilted skin – Consider only this immortal necklace and live forever therein.”