I born from a force ripe small Island an ah bitter now like a paw-paw seed, SPIT ME OUT Buh Grenada soil plant dey on mih mind too, an miles ah sea rough up time in me when mih mind was green and fresh as sea weed come an go to an fro, make mih like ah loose buoy in St. George's land - lock harbour, now all dem boys drift far too from Grand's anse sexy - smell, an dah dazzling strip of sun on sea blazing on black backs rowing till sunset, salt crystals fine now like specks of diamonds in mih mind. - WHO SAY DE FLYING FISH - woman voice singing out an de lambie shell TOOTING from de wharf big steamers blowing dong de Town, an Marryshow was de stern face voice rich in mih ears de day in school he say an we voices echo THE WEST INDIES MUST BE WEST INDIAN! an ah take in Marryshow voice like de first time ah hear de sound of de waves breaking on land, THE WEST INDIES MUST BE WEST INDIAN! An Marryshow Motto-Vision row boat did run aground in ah Federal Funeral, an de buoy just drift bout sick to hear - SEND DEM BACK - black like me, vomit sounds an bad 'LICKS ub de POLICE VAN' for bad english - SEND DEM BACK - - SEND DEM BACK - BLACK like me to land BLACK LIKE ME IN THAT LAND OF HOPE AND G-L-O-O-O-R-Y, an de flying fish woman cry out loud and de lambie shell Toot out loud and sad, for all dem people going on dem big streamers blowing dong St. George's Town An ah drink rum like sea water ah nearly drown in dey Independence Blood c-l-a-a-t flags up politics up prices leh we see fuh weself up to de up side dong shit house Parliament plan left over HOLDS fuh rotten fish smell in ah Carifta Basket - poor effort fuh de poor - marketing off fuh deyself an de UP CLASS cutting dong an bleeding WE eversince molasses was black blood an sugar was bitter bitter vomit an sweet sailing fuh dem tourist Havens spreading out more an more by West Indian Islands now. An I know Toussaint dead in France an Garvey dead in England an Fanon dead in America an I cry BLACK POWER fuh we an all dem restless souls to rest in peace in dey home lands, an wid force dey take me handcuff cross de sea to Nelson Island, an from dah small force ripe Island I taste de sourness of despair, an I hear de waves an echoes of voices saying THE WEST INDIES MUST BE WEST INDIAN! an i spit at de feet of dem West Indian heads who band deyself in Sodomy to ban an defeat dis vision of seeing ALL as Black an one force United for - LIFE - an I feel de power of de sea in de hour we bathe as sun weself on EXILE Island, wid machine guns covering we black backs hunched wid tension locked back in before sunset, salt crystals fine now like gelignite in mih mind. An i hear Powell talking SEND DEM BACK in de land of HOPE AND G-L-O-O-O-R-Y! an I know Time rough Time ripe so come back home men Come back home THE WEST INDIES WILL BE WEST INDIAN NOW Fuh dis MOTTO VISION speed boat load up wid - ALL POWER TO THE PEOPLE - an it ruffling up ideas, Hope dazzling mih eyes like a new day by de sea an hearing waves an echoes of West Indian Voices returning.