Mento

They say I must sing Through sunset dripping blood And despite the broken wing Of the bird fluttering Where the boy had left it innocently Sling shot wounded to die They say I must sing Say I must make the fourth beat The important thing And I want to know why should I bleat Only after I have felt four lashes I want to know Because as a child the drop-pan man sold numbers Making me know numbers had a owner They belonged to someone And that someone said four was the number of blood And blood is the price of freedom And the song is the memory of things Things I do not want to forget Things I file in the subconscious for a rainy day Which must end for children to play I love the songs we use to sing The mento fife playing While the folks clap Mosquitoes and flies sapping the flesh Parasites the flood left behind I love the mento song That they grow in Sunday morning digging songs But I do not sing that rhythm now The harmony is broken in me For I do not know, cannot tell Why the fourth beat intercedes my hell.