izgaghibier, let jah be praised,
as melodies pour, and social issues are raised.
legalize herb, feed all the hungry,
shut down politricksters, babylon ablazed.
treble tidal wave,
across orange street,
and the bassline shocks, in chunky, ominous walks,
youth hand out flyers
as all doubts way down in trenchtown
disperse, as a high roller with maroon skin
forgets her purse, up on hope road,
the newly minted prime minister
has to decide which economic crisis is worse:
brand new world bank structural adjustments,
or kingston cab drivers on strike, their yellow pods
blocking roads in all directions,
the only escape to the blue mountains
on the back of a red, gold, and green motorbike,
as dreadlocked german tourists go for a morning hike,
the sun coming up like a taunt.
studio one, black ark, vinyl magic created
from the first ray of light
to the last hint of dark, yardcore, no lark,
as ganja spark, hark
to all heralds of one drop wisdom,
and we don't want to sleep in the park,
and we don't want to swim with a shark,
crazy baldheads come in suits
that are scotch bonnet hot
and panama hats that sit crooked,
their briefcases are not welcome here,
and their breath reeks of business class
armchair economic analysis,
the daily gleaner is being sold
by a privatized street cleaner
who needed a third job, but a song
from burning spear
about the paradise his little island
could become, will be
ringing in his ears
like the pit-pat thunderclaps
of a nyabinghi drum.
izgaghibier, let jah be praised,
as social issues are raised
and reggae music reigns supreme,
cutting through the constant haze
cutting through the grand babylon scheme.
