Count dem: one, two, three, four, five bullet—

look like me did have chicken pox dat swell up

all over me back. But dem neva know

me woulda come forward stronger 

than wen dem lef on Pink Lane fe dead—

for yea tho’ I walk through the gullies of death

not one of dese baldheads—not even the last one

the one who say him was mi Idren—alive today.

And him never even waste a bullet pon me.

Push the blade under mi ribs an bus me lungs