'They gone far Toolsie!
In the darkness of dancehall
Sita shaking she hip and Negro shaking back,
Loud noise, lipstick and loose bra**ieres,
How these children got no shame, and hard-ears.
The girl fretting whenever I mention marriage:
Poonai's son is nice quite boy and got job on shopfloor,
But coolie not for her no more,
They gone too far Toolsie!'
One long wife-wailing and a hollering-
Like when magistrate jail cow-thief
Or dog-f** when they struggling to leggo,
Like when Ramlall Ma hear he fail exam
After she toiling nightshift with Overseer to buy schoolbook,
Or when someone burn down Chinee shop
Since he stop give credit by summonsing folk instead-
Toolsie endures, dreaming of bat-and-ball
In backyard with the village boys,
From the haze of his evening hammock and rum-bottle,
Cane splinters still jammed in his foot from the day's work.