I’m just a Yawdie, truly from Jamaica

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Cary is what they call me,

I’m just a Yawdie, truly from Jamaica,

Doin’ what, we do best,

Doin’ what, we’d seldom thought we’d be doin’ in the West,

Feeding the monstrous American appetite for drugs,

Dealing coke and crack from my East-End shack,

Gone are those days in cheap printed Caribbean rags,

Now’s I have the dollars raining,

I wonder if Washington on those green piles envied my smile,

With millions on me, I trip to my West Indian homeland,

Only to comfort my people,

Distant from opportunities to a good life,

Baked by the Sun and the Weed,

Spent under those coconut trees,

I bring smiles to each and every household,

Even the ones, I stole from while I was young,

Soccer boots, balls and American gadgets for the kids,

While sauces from Ohio and NYC’s skirts for the ladies,

A drug-rehabilitation centre financed by me is on the way,

Many rowed on my dollars for businesses of their own,

For living lives far away from the shadows of dope,

When I sit back, I realize,

No matter I made a few live, I have been killing thousands all the while,

Philanthropy is useless for a dealer of death,

I know I might not be able to make it back again,

I shall be punished for dealing away pain,

But till then, I will see my people smile,

I will see kids getting rid of stones,

Kicking professional soccer balls, for a change,

Till then, I will rather believe,

I dealt out joy here,

And poisonous happiness on the other side…

Debaroon’2012

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