WELL, WELL, it’s June again! It’s a good thing the months change otherwise it would seem this country is in a perpetual sleep like in those fairy tales where a wicked witch casts a spell. Maybe someone should kiss a frog. Or a prince. I forget which.
Anyhow, it’s Crop Over season. Dr Gabby had a wonderful interview with Peta Alleyne on TV. Buh Dog and his brother getting on Fireworks with that Johnson fellow.
This week I tried to rhyme two themes unsuccessfully. However, since one gives a monkey’s-eye view on our “national inertia”, as David Ellis calls it, I throw it out for what it’s worth.
Here’s Living In De Nile:I was strumming guitar in muh gallory when a big boar monkey sit down by me; Eating muh fruits like he own the place, ain’t shame the juice running down he face. He ask me to teach ’e to milk a goat, for at night he children dem want Sprite float. I tell him, “Monk, you can go to hell and take yuh monkey tribe as well, I’ve had enough of your tiefing ways, it’s time for the shottie to end your days. . .
But he sang: Lowdown, Lowdown, mind yuh mout’, yuh don’t know what yuh talking ’bout. This country’s economy ain’t goin’ nowhere, like all de Bajans paralyze with fear. That last Election left people cold, and mash up all of Wickham’s poll. De living politicians ranted at night, but Grantleys and Dippers won the fight. Now it’s plain for all to see, the living dead ruling this country. The PM retire to the Land of Nod, where Cain did get exile by God; And Sinckler and the rest for the longest while, all dem living in de Nile. Monkey exports bring in foreign exchange and de tourists like we on Sandy range. So get a goat before I lose my cool, I is a monkey but not a fool!
That monkey is a real idiot. Even if the PM is taking a little nap, how could Chris and the others be living in “de Nile”? You could figure out that?
This next one tells about a bad experience I had importing a cat. It’s called My Irie Bald-Pooch Cat:
Down the way where the knights are gay and the sun shines daily on the ganja crop, a Rasta man was calling out and when I heard his shout I had to stop.
He had displayed a lovely beast, like them tigress from the East; swishing ’bout its sexy tail, muh knees went weak, muh morals fail (when he sang. . . .)Ding dong dell, one pussycat to sell; she big, nice and fat, my irie bald-pooch cat. She will keep you warm, even in a storm; or if you into dat, you could eat this cat. Forget all de rest, Jamaica cat de best. White man, have a try, step up now and buy . . . .A man is weak when he out from home and that cat’s fur I longed to comb; paid the price, arranged my flight, landed back in Bim that very night. My irie cat and me walk in proud, till the customs officer laugh out loud (if yuh hear she. . . .)“Well, well, well, put she in a cell. Lowdown get shortchange, dat cat got bald-pooch mange. Look at all de fleas, it must be got disease.“Spray it down for bugs, check if it carrying drugs. If Lowdown pay for that, he really don’t know cat. Put it on a plane, send it home again . . . .” I say, “Lady, you can’t do that, you can’t refuse a CARICOM cat. My irie cat got pedigree, or so de Rasta man tell me. “It can dance in high-heel shoe, or handle from micey to manicou. “Let go my cat and don’t mek sport, otherwise this thing goin’ end in court.” (And now it is. . . .)Hell, old hell, not a soul can tell. My Jamaica cat gone back, the whole scheme get hijack. Poor me sleeping dread, want her in my bed. My money gone to waste, never got a taste. Never got a pat, from my irie bald-pooch cat.
The lesson here is brief: cats can bring you grief. Farewell to a gentle giant, Stewart Bishop, a friend from schooldays. Gone way too soon.
• Richard Hoad is a farmer and social commentator. Email porkhoad @gmail.com.
