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.