Cockspurs in the Cockpits, A Poem of the Times.
In solidarity with the Jamaican Cockpit Maroons, in their land-claim fight with the Jamaican government. Told in a richly blended language mix of; poetry, Jamaican patois, nonsense talk, and sensational spelling, sometimes. Yes, wordplay is the order of the day around here.
Yes, mi fren. Cock spur Makkah gwine juck dem, right here in the Cockpit Mountains.
Getting ready they are. Getting ready to knock fists — mi star, knocking them downhole in the cockpits. They thought that this was going to be easy. “Just go get it done,” they said, “and come back quickly.” But it was for the first time ever that night, that some of them were going to the cockfight.
They would have been wandering in the car, “Hey!” they asked, “What are those bowls really for?” But they were going to find this out really soon, like, when she was to fall in hard, upon the boom. Yes, mi fren. Zooming on in on the other end of the other broom, you know, the sort which was not what they were there whoring for to go in and spoon. Wanted to hit upon a big score, yes mister mistar.
