Go away from here from my grave you hypocrites
And shed thy crocodile tears upon stony Aphrodite
Show thy grief to Kwake Ananse, for he alone can elevate you to heights of hypocrisy
Swallow thy tears and weep for those who die as cowards of drudgery
I am linger in Shangrilla, the haven of peace and tranquility
Where mutiny and hatred knows no perpetuity
Cry for yourselves and your maggot infested brains
Pouring deception on my grave in this rain
I am not dead, I am free like a dove on Zion
Perching on that olive branch high up over looking Babylon
Take your wreaths and decorate your court
I linger in that cold breeze that blows over your warm fort
I am in a safe place where lilies and hyacinths purge rot
A place where purity and hatred never cross path
I am in a place where fruits abound and sentiments dissipate
No wreaths for me, smile and pray for yourself
It may be your turn