“Bim(shire’s) best,” someone said. “Madness!” said the rest.  The level lands of Barbados hide no one. You must take a stand. You forgot the good fight at CowPastor though the planes rain down their tourists in the national interests on your head. You remain the one, the living fighting "I"; they counted you as no more. A life lived in the trenches. A soul roasted like cashews upon a pan resting on the blackened stones. A mind without rest, tested at every turn and pressured to buckle for titled rewards.