They told me Sir Jessus, King of reggae
was there, on the sound system controls,
but I didn’t see him.
Vibrating windows viewed a happy blues,
moistened in Special Brew, that
spilled the rice and peas of my Saturday.
Fancy dress sir? Bit late. Last two get-ups in Ealing.
So George took Ratty, grey faux fur,
and a tail he had to carry.
Me, I thought mine had style.
At nineteen, a white cassock
with a red cross on it,
white witches hat,
with eye slits, meant little,
perhaps an obscure American B movie?
Catching the underground to Turnham Green,
caused little stirrings. Inside the Duke of Sussex,
strange looks alighted, why was he with that rat?
Eventually, we left and our party arrived,
at someone’s thundering door.
Why were they suspicious?
These West Indians lacked humour.
Hadn’t they seen a rat and
a Klu Klux Klan member before?
Well maybe not.
But the evening danced into a daze,
curry goat and spliff,
laced heavily with Brew.
The Royals, Morwells,
Diamonds and Big Youth,
stole my musical show.
Bass trembling between ribs,
premixed the stomach contents,
until, I gyrated, unbalanced while walking,
through a steam of clinging ganja.
Only to slip the sash up,
and eject some bad feeling
on their washable flower bed.
Pictures exist I’m told,
that I’d love to see, but,
East London’s a long way off,
and their fists are big,
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem