So, you thought it was for your contentment that the concrete, and cement were sent.
Smooth as the come fatter that was meant for your walking shoe, socks, and garment Mister, but it was not.
You went out to buy a new car, as shiny and sparkling as you were.
They packaged and sold it on you for a fast-talker.
Look, "look how quickly it gets you from 0 to 60 knots, sir."
So said the bigger boss you'd wanted to crosstalk. But, whatever you do, don’t drive it fast.
Or you will be made to pay the real cost, my star.
City officials sits on the bartered chairs they thought were theirs.
Yes, mi dear. Their very own throne with golden slippers to wear, while looking down their noses at you, my dear.
Dared you to question the things that they put on top of you to bear.
In your name they're doing it too, but, what could you do? Nothing.
While the population was growing exponentially into glutenous glory.
Politicians’ pencils drew the top of your apartment building into the clouded territories.
But puts a large side walking brick to block half your street, with.
Orange cones, and a massive Flowerpot pit, where the streets used to beat, around.
Sit, sit, sit down sir, and drink your cup of tea, because...
Those heavy vehicles must negotiate a path through what’s left of where the streets used to be, queued.
With the added risk of injury, property damage, death, and misery, my youth.
Not just the products you needed to get your table spread, with truckloads of fruits.
Like, food to feed me, and (yes mi Bred,) bottled water and bread gets Hugh to bleed me.
Pickett signs float across your inner-city line, do the math, it’s a regular occurrence to blow off the pitiful this time.
"Yeah, man, that’s fine," you’d said. Since the joy of your life had already taken to the skies in flight, and fled.
With far too few restful hours, left to your sleepless nights. Bloodshed.
Multiplied the bleeding forces with brutal, and heartless cops.
The type that Mama’s husband wouldn’t be proud to admit he'd gotten got, because.
"Ironclad buffer zone they are," he'd said, "between the masses at the bottom, and the bottomless, spineless wick head up top, mi bred."
Tossed a gaping hole across a blind man’s path.
Then hurled a rock from the upper flat, that almost broke his hunched back, apart.
Preteneveryday actt’s his own fault, to be blamed. Such a shame, but.
Just the regular everyday-act in game mode I thought.
Yet, when we turned around and looked back at them. We didn’t like what came back hitting up against our names.
“Meh gaan yaah man,” said another Jamaican, “because, it seems as if they’re about to flush us all down the drain.
As if we’re only as good as done, around here, my friends.”
So, whose side are you on, (tell me,) whose side will you be on when this is all over and done? Well, if.
If tomorrow should even bother to come out again, from under the covers, to salute a new day’s sun.
Hey, what’s that smell? Oh hell! That’s it.
The underbelly of the beast is rotten to the core already, ish.
So, take a look at this and see if you won’t agree, with me.
The Masqueraders are out again busily walking the beats.
â"⸪â"
