This collection comes from the ramblings of the Five
Litre Poets Society during their ill-earned October 2003 vacation in the Bahamas and Cuba.

                 Wedding Eve

This was written in Nassau ten years after the actual event.

Black man sleeping on pool table
In this boozer in the bush
All are jobless fit and able
Far from England’s maddening hush

In this boozer in the bush
Beer and rum are flowing fast
Far from England’s maddening hush
Music blaring at full blast

Beer and rum are flowing fast
Bonhomie and drugs are freely passing
Music blaring at full blast
Girls are looking really smashing

Bonhomie and drugs are freely passing
Must not forget I’m here to marry
Girls are looking really smashing
Must have fun but mustn’t tarry

Must not forget I’m here to marry
Keep my white man’s stiff upper lip
Must have fun but mustn’t tarry
Mustn’t let the image slip

Keep my white man’s stiff upper lip
Family here to keep the score
Mustn’t let the image slip
Mustn’t have too many more

Family here to keep the score
Dad-in-law must feel the heat
Mustn’t have too many more
His feet are drumming to the beat

Dad-in-law must feel the heat
Mum-in-law looks askance
His feet are drumming to the beat
Oh God! a black man asks her to dance

Mum-in-law looks askance
Wife-to-be is looking haughty
Oh God! a black man asks her to dance
This is really getting naughty

Wife-to-be is looking haughty
Local lads are eying her
This is really getting naughty
Hoping that they’ll get their share

Local lads are eying her
An English maiden on the hoof
Hoping that they’ll get their share
Although she seems somewhat aloof

An English maiden on the hoof
But breeding tells it must be said
Although she seems somewhat aloof
She’s careful whom she takes to bed

But breeding tells it must be said
And so she gently puts them down
She’s careful whom she takes to bed
Asking with a thoughtful frown

And so she gently puts them down
In this hellish Tower of Babel
Asking with a thoughtful frown
“Who’s that fellow on the table?”

In this hellish Tower of Babel
The somnambulant snored in time
“Who’s that fellow on the table?”
Writhing now in ghastly mime

The somnambulant snored in time
The black men rolled their big white eyes
Writhing now in ghastly mime
The girls looked on with awe struck sighs

The black men rolled their big white eyes
“Quiet please, he must not be woken”
The girls looked on with awe struck sighs
Softly, softly these words were spoken

“Quiet please, he must not be woken”
He Big Man, but is not sinister
Softly, softly these words were spoken
“Indeed he is Deputy Prime Minister”

He Big Man, but is not sinister
At this time he needs his rest
“Indeed he is Deputy Prime Minister”
Then tomorrow he’ll be his best

At this time he needs his rest
The wedding party went their way
Then tomorrow he’ll be his best
The local crowd had had their say

The wedding party went their way
THIS IS TRUE, IT’S NOT SOME FABLE
The local crowd had had their say
Black man sleeping on pool table

             Dying, but not Just Yet

This was written in a wet and windy day in Exuma, where the Five Litre Poets were recovering from a Halloween Hooley.

Going deaf, going blind
Going careless in the mind
Hair is thinning on the head
Slowly, slowly going dead

Getting soft what once was stiff
Thinking more ‘if only if’
On the stairs so short of breath
At the top there’s only death

Repeating tales of days of yore
Not knowing that you’re a bore
Years ago you were so brave
Before you dreamed that open grave

Looking up six feet above
Hoping for some family love
What you saw is what you’ll get
A row of faces all hard set

While alive they suck your blood
(They think it makes you feel good)
When you’ve passed your final hour
Then the entrails they’ll devour

But after all you feel quite well
Slowing down but what the hell
Tell them that you’re getting stronger
Let them squirm a little longer

So next time let Death pass by
It’s not your duty yet to die
Then do not simply pass away
But fight to live another day

             Sunset over the Exumas

This shows what the ravages of local rum can do to the brain when consumed in quantity under the hot sun.

Great bullying orange sun
Being sucked down into deep blue waters
Incandescent with rage.
Sneering crescent moon looks on
Gaining strength by the minute
Joined soon by myriad cold-eyed stars.
Waves gently caressing luminescent land
Singing in tune with distant revelry
Ghostly night closing in
Day is dead for one more time

                 A Sermon for the Pastor

This was written on a Sunday morning in Nassau when all good Bahamians, including our charming hostess dress up in their very best clothes and sally forth to the church or chapel of their choice. Not forgetting their purses, of course.  The first line of the work is taken from current slogan of our hostess’s chosen church.

“Don’t cheat God by blaming it on the economy”
He needs to be fed just as much as the family.
The butcher, the grocer, the baker can wait
They’re not the ones to open that Golden Gate
Sure you can pay your taxes to the nation
Provided you’ve no fear of Eternal Damnation
If you’ve only got small change to put on the plate
Don’t blame Him for your infinite fate
If you really want that land of Milk and Honey
Go to the usurer and raise the money
Then you’ll be truly welcome at His door
It’s not His fault if you are poor
He’ll give to you His infinite love
And rule you benignly from His place above
Provided of course you fill His coffers
With your hard-earned Bahamian dollars
Even though for now it’s all struggle and strife
You’ll want to live well in the afterlife
So when you enter His earthly house, don’t be a tightwad
And think to yourself, thank god there’s only one God.

               A Random Thought

Those who squandered their youth should in old age seek the pleasures of learning and understanding.  Those who took the path of earnest endeavour and achieved some success in life should lighten up a bit.

                     The Servant Problem

This was written on Marjorie’s veranda while watching her two Haitian servants toil leisurely in the sun and from time-to-time talking to the voluble inside maid, Julia and the enigmatic gardener, Daniel.  Both are illegal immigrants, Daniel for over thirty years.

Daniel cutlass drooping from his arm
Julia mop in hand, bucket by her side
Sun beating fiercely on their baseball caps
Tongues wagging frenchly to each other
Two slaves in a foreign land
Much blacker than their black slave masters.

Daniel bare backed, bare-chested in his wiry frame
Cutlass no longer hacking through the cane
But keeping garden quietly manicured
Julia white dress starched correctly
No longer waiting to be beaten
Making sure the house is clean

Missy pays them above a pittance
For she was once a slave herself
(At least her great-great-grandpa was)
Daniel has been in love with Missy for thirty years
But knows his place, well below the stairs
“Missy treats me good”, he thinks, in French of course

Julia much younger, only recently illegal
Must have been to school in Port au Prince
Thoughts emerging well above her station
Speaks to Daniel less kindly than does Missy
And sometimes even questions Missy’s wisdom
Speaking to her as if slave to slave

They live here freely, although illegal
With secret families in the bush
No banks or schools or medicare
No voting rights, no one to care
To the Government they do not exist
Thirty thousand, and all not there!

The policeman patrols in non-existent shanty town
Small bribe here, a feminine favour there
An easy going epitome of ‘laissez-faire’
A language that they understand at last
So different from the Tonton Macoute
No beating, rape or murder here

People like Missy treat them well
As all good slave owners really should
But others, who used to do the same work for more
Now resent their presence here
“They work too hard so send them back
They won’t be missed, they don’t exist”

There are some beatings and some arson now
And clamours for their deportation
But more are coming by the day
Bosses pleased: more work, less pay
But tensions rising with the sun
“Let’s get the illegals on the run”

Soft waves lap the luminescent shore
The Bahamian flag waves gently in the evening breeze
Tourists safely sheltered in their earthly Paradise
New half-built hotels silhouetted in red sky
The Missy’s of the Island about to dine
Leaving native underclass moaning in the bars

But hark, there is another sound
A siren voice in shanty town
A Julia has read a book
That says all men(and women, too) are equal
“For thirty years we had less pay
Now it’s time we had our say

Old Daniel’s though are not so sure
“The Missies have been good to us
We must not let them down”
The Julias they laugh at them
“Sharpen your cutlasses you old men
Now you’ve real work to do”

The Grandmas think of the little ones
Who would like to go to school
The fathers think of Haiti
And the fate awaiting there
The Julias think of freedom and what it really means
Daniel thinks of Missy with a silent tear

There for the moment the matter rests
Julia is still well starched
Daniel’s cutlass is at peace
Missy still well pleased
But if you listen very carefully at the dead of night
You’ll hear a growing murmuring from non-existent shanty town

                     To Cuba with Love

This was composed in the departure lounge of Nassau airport waiting interminably for the arrival of the Cubana YAK-42 to transport us to Havana.  The USA had very recently increased the penalties for their citizens visiting or in any way supporting the Cuban economy and were about to ask the UN for world-wide sanctions against Castro’s Cuba. Their motion was defeated by 165 votes to 3.

You don’t get to drink Coke in Cuba
Since Castro upset the US of A
Don’t that deprivation really move’ya
Don’t you wish he’d go away

Since Cuba upset the US of A
Forty years or more ago
Don’t you wish he’d go away
Removing him has been so slow

Forty years or more ago
He came and set his country free
Removing him has been so slow
Can’t we bring back the Mafiosi

He came and set his country free
Posturing around in his camouflage
Can’t we bring back the Mafiosi
Waving one of those big cigars

Posturing around in his camouflage
Making his country a socialist state
Waving one of those big cigars
Thus thought many sealing his fate

Making his country a socialist state
The CIA sent him an exploding cigar
Thus thought many sealing his fate
Some thought this going a little too far

The CIA sent him an exploding cigar
Then they assembled a motley band
Some thought this going a little too far
When they invaded his sovereign land

Then they assembled a motley band
Completely routed on their arrival
When they invaded his sovereign land
The US of A went into denial

Completely routed on their arrival
Driven back from whence they came
The US of A went into denial
To beat him they must play another game

Driven back from whence they came
The whole thing was a complete farrago
To beat him they must play another game
So they tried a trade embargo

The whole thing was a complete farrago
To get at him make the people suffer
So they tried a trade embargo
Then they’ll remove the mad old buffer

To get at him make the people suffer
Deny them cars and oil and beans
Then they’ll remove the mad old buffer
Clamp right down, use any means

Deny them cars and oil and beans
Nor more ketchup, no Big Macs
Clamp right down, use any means
That’ll get him off their backs

Nor more ketchup, no Big Macs
Turn the screws, let our will be done
That’ll get him off their backs
He’ll have gone and we’ll have won

Turn the screws, let our will be done
A few more months, a year at most
He’ll have gone and we’ll have won
His memory faded, just a ghost

A few more months, a year at most
Cuba reborn and market led
His memory faded, just a ghost
Happy people and very well fed

Cuba reborn and market led
It’s happening now it must be said
Happy people and very well fed
But Castro’s still there and Cuba’s still Red

It’s happening now it must be said
Without the blessing of the US of A
But Castro’s still there and Cuba’s still Red
So the embargo remains up to this day

Without the blessing of the US of A
We’ll do nothing to help to improve’ya
So the embargo remains up to this day
You don’t get to drink Coke in Cuba

© 2003 The Five Litre Poets Society