She loves me now.
So, you thought it was because the other guy loved you, that one right there in front of your eyes. You thought it was because he loves you a lot, why he did all that, blue eyes? Yes. He loves you, right? That was why he'd afforded you a place here in his grand city, those other valuable things too, and the pretty? All those things he'd afforded you, like a job for example, not at all, Nitty Gritty.
It was love that made it happen, alright, but not for you, as you had thought and written right, or blue. It was love for himself and his children, to the ninety-ninth generation of them. Oh no, it wasn't for you, oh, but? He did get out, this man here, yes, him. He got out from behind the bottle of beer and took your little piece of ground, dead sin ting. That same piece of ground that you'd despised so much that you'd considered it a blessing when he'd taken it from you and run, with them.
He took it right out from under you, and from under your hand, then went to work making it a great city, and grand. Used your labor and all your other fine resources in the process to save her, and all other things pretty and new. Fine for him, not you, you never knew. You'd considered it rubbish, so he took it, all of it. He took you too, to go and make you feel comfortable in a pigeon coop type of structure, the one that he'd built in that said city for you, on the cluster. In the city that he'd built. No, not for himself, he lives elsewhere and in grandeur.
But it was for you and others like you that he had built it up yonder and rented it. He rents it out to you. Or sell it at exorbitant prices too, to make sure that every penny that he was forced to pay you by some other people, of his kind, not yours. People who wanted other types of power and glory, at your hands, and your expense, sieve doors. Yes. That kind of power, too. The power that those "others" were to figure out very quickly that you were the very ones who were able to give it to them, mi pickney. This said power, that he seeks, and the glory too.
He then went on to make laws that force his brother to pay you for the work that he squeezes out of you, and only because? He must now pay you, because of those laws, and the pay to drive through in your expensive cars. Laws that could have yet benefited you just as they had benefited him. If only you'd gone out and done the same as that, and every other self-respecting person had done, with them. But not you, you just wanted some, like, something new to go around and mess with the screw, on a job. 'Because you're big and strong like that,' got all of the muscle that it takes to get and keep one, yes, a job.
To keep you fed, and that's all there is to life, in your head. Your life, not mine and theirs, anyway. He invented ways to take it all back. That same little pittance of money that he was forced to pay you, on the fact. He came up with ways to get it all back, because you never did care about anything, and won't be made to. You never created or invented nuttn, oh sorry, I meant to say, anything. You're quite satisfied with what that other man may give you back out of everything that he has stolen from you, and out of your back, packed mi pops, to go and spend on fat? piece of food.
So that, if and when the pressure gets turned on, and up a bit, (nothing new,) nothing they can't fix. So that it becomes a bit more difficult for you to bear it, and function through the slit, on the little morsel that that said man gives to you to fit. Or was made to give to you to eat, by his brother the prophet, who'd profited the most. There are always those other options that you've got on which to fall back, to get on your feet again and up. Like, street protest for instance, and sacrificing up your three sons, and your daughters too, in the same streets, comb your hair and come, even. To make them do it, because, if they can do nothing else, they can still listen, hear, and breathe.
Yes, those people over there can still breathe. Because they still have life, they can and will breathe. Your sons and daughters, though, no, they won't, not anymore. You've already sacrificed them up, for your bellies' sake, and the old bore in the cup. On wants, too, and more, much more. Like, the more bend to fit that you? Sorry, I meant to say benefits. The more benefits that you're asking for, always. But those folks would have listened, they'd listened to you and did what they had to do, they gave you what you were asking for, fast. Some of it anyway, some of the time. Of course, they may give you more handouts and food for your mouth, too, as always.
Meanwhile, your lands, the lands of your forefathers, lands that they'd given you in the days of the former, they lay waste, and that same "other man," with the briefcase, as well as many other men, in this case, are eying it and biding their time, until you're done wasting away behind your expensive window blinds, even on crime. Or become so used up that they can just walk right on in, and all over you, and take it away from, guess who? Take away whatever is left of it, from under you. That which was once yours, and show you a bit of mercy, maybe, by taking you out of your misery quickly and painlessly. You know he has always been kind and caring like that to see. But?
If you were there walking on the diamond and didn't know it, someone like the high man who knows will be coming soon, and it'll be to take it out from under you, to store it. And for what? No, not that sort, but? He takes it out from under your feet if you are lucky and sweet. But what the heck do I know about this, though? Yeah, I heard you, squat, Bro. So, it's not because he necessarily loves you like that, but he sure loves his children boy. You, on the other hand? Yes, you love yours too, in some other sort of messed up kind of ways and plans, of things to do.
So, there you go; dropping them off here, you drop them there, everywhere that there may be a place that you can drop them off, on her chair. That's what you do, and then go a-counting them, one, twenty-two, seventy-three, and those three sitting over there under the tree, yeah! They, too, belong to you, not me.
Meanwhile, your children, every last one of them, look at them. They're there trying to count on some things too; they're trying to count on everyone else, and everything else, but you.
Because they know very well that they can never count on you. Your female folks, too, and the mother of your children, boy! Oh, how well she cooks the well-seasoned stew, for guess who? "No Joy." But, what else does she do, other than screw the cap off the oil can and pour it over on them while cooking the stew? She leaves hers, yes, her very own children, to go off cooking and caring for the other woman's pickney dem. For a paycheck from them.
Money, she then goes off and spends in shopping malls and market stalls, their shopping malls, even. Trying to buy pretty looks for herself, maybe, and for the children's help, sometimes, lately. Decking them out in pretty nothings and shine. Putting it on them, but never even stopping for a minute to think about the possibility of putting it in them. Or something else, perhaps, like, something of value, or just, something healthy. So, they end up just as shallow and worthless as the other one. You know, the one who's standing right there before you in the shopping line. Or going off to the Showtime, sometimes, in the same shopping line, even.
"Don't overthink it," they say, and you willingly obey. But what if they're preparing you for something that is coming along, down the way? What if they're conditioning you to take leave of your senses (of thinking?) Well, okay, let's just say? What if they don't want you to think at all, just take and follow instructions coming from them and wink at their beckoned call? Suit someone somewhere just fine, one might think. And you? You went along with it to your undoing, we think, and for trying to fit in. Fitting snugly into it. Whatever you do, don't ever think, it's a very bad thing, so don't do it, I'm warning you, oh. Now, spit.
Have you gotten a copy of the Manley book yet? What are you waiting for? How to Train a Wild Puppy Dog Named Manley is a riveting, coming-of-age love story, Jamaican yardie-style. Get your copy now on Barnes and Noble, Kobo, or wherever books are sold, you know the drill, just Google it up.
Note: the Manley book was the catalyst for this book, it was this book: How to Train a Wild Puppy Dog named Manley, "the Manley book," that was to have gotten the folks all riled up and got the author benched from activities in the church, and now, here he is, along with the old man, telling you the rest of the story from his mouth. Go on, get the Manley book so that you may be better able to put it all in its proper context and perspective. Out. To be continued.
WritingElk.
So, you thought it was because the other guy loved you, that one right there in front of your eyes. You thought it was because he loves you a lot, why he did all that, blue eyes? Yes. He loves you, right? That was why he'd afforded you a place here in his grand city, those other valuable things too, and the pretty? All those things he'd afforded you, like a job for example, not at all, Nitty Gritty.
It was love that made it happen, alright, but not for you, as you had thought and written right, or blue. It was love for himself and his children, to the ninety-ninth generation of them. Oh no, it wasn't for you, oh, but? He did get out, this man here, yes, him. He got out from behind the bottle of beer and took your little piece of ground, dead sin ting. That same piece of ground that you'd despised so much that you'd considered it a blessing when he'd taken it from you and run, with them.
He took it right out from under you, and from under your hand, then went to work making it a great city, and grand. Used your labor and all your other fine resources in the process to save her, and all other things pretty and new. Fine for him, not you, you never knew. You'd considered it rubbish, so he took it, all of it. He took you too, to go and make you feel comfortable in a pigeon coop type of structure, the one that he'd built in that said city for you, on the cluster. In the city that he'd built. No, not for himself, he lives elsewhere and in grandeur.
But it was for you and others like you that he had built it up yonder and rented it. He rents it out to you. Or sell it at exorbitant prices too, to make sure that every penny that he was forced to pay you by some other people, of his kind, not yours. People who wanted other types of power and glory, at your hands, and your expense, sieve doors. Yes. That kind of power, too. The power that those "others" were to figure out very quickly that you were the very ones who were able to give it to them, mi pickney. This said power, that he seeks, and the glory too.
He then went on to make laws that force his brother to pay you for the work that he squeezes out of you, and only because? He must now pay you, because of those laws, and the pay to drive through in your expensive cars. Laws that could have yet benefited you just as they had benefited him. If only you'd gone out and done the same as that, and every other self-respecting person had done, with them. But not you, you just wanted some, like, something new to go around and mess with the screw, on a job. 'Because you're big and strong like that,' got all of the muscle that it takes to get and keep one, yes, a job.
To keep you fed, and that's all there is to life, in your head. Your life, not mine and theirs, anyway. He invented ways to take it all back. That same little pittance of money that he was forced to pay you, on the fact. He came up with ways to get it all back, because you never did care about anything, and won't be made to. You never created or invented nuttn, oh sorry, I meant to say, anything. You're quite satisfied with what that other man may give you back out of everything that he has stolen from you, and out of your back, packed mi pops, to go and spend on fat? piece of food.
So that, if and when the pressure gets turned on, and up a bit, (nothing new,) nothing they can't fix. So that it becomes a bit more difficult for you to bear it, and function through the slit, on the little morsel that that said man gives to you to fit. Or was made to give to you to eat, by his brother the prophet, who'd profited the most. There are always those other options that you've got on which to fall back, to get on your feet again and up. Like, street protest for instance, and sacrificing up your three sons, and your daughters too, in the same streets, comb your hair and come, even. To make them do it, because, if they can do nothing else, they can still listen, hear, and breathe.
Yes, those people over there can still breathe. Because they still have life, they can and will breathe. Your sons and daughters, though, no, they won't, not anymore. You've already sacrificed them up, for your bellies' sake, and the old bore in the cup. On wants, too, and more, much more. Like, the more bend to fit that you? Sorry, I meant to say benefits. The more benefits that you're asking for, always. But those folks would have listened, they'd listened to you and did what they had to do, they gave you what you were asking for, fast. Some of it anyway, some of the time. Of course, they may give you more handouts and food for your mouth, too, as always.
Meanwhile, your lands, the lands of your forefathers, lands that they'd given you in the days of the former, they lay waste, and that same "other man," with the briefcase, as well as many other men, in this case, are eying it and biding their time, until you're done wasting away behind your expensive window blinds, even on crime. Or become so used up that they can just walk right on in, and all over you, and take it away from, guess who? Take away whatever is left of it, from under you. That which was once yours, and show you a bit of mercy, maybe, by taking you out of your misery quickly and painlessly. You know he has always been kind and caring like that to see. But?
If you were there walking on the diamond and didn't know it, someone like the high man who knows will be coming soon, and it'll be to take it out from under you, to store it. And for what? No, not that sort, but? He takes it out from under your feet if you are lucky and sweet. But what the heck do I know about this, though? Yeah, I heard you, squat, Bro. So, it's not because he necessarily loves you like that, but he sure loves his children boy. You, on the other hand? Yes, you love yours too, in some other sort of messed up kind of ways and plans, of things to do.
So, there you go; dropping them off here, you drop them there, everywhere that there may be a place that you can drop them off, on her chair. That's what you do, and then go a-counting them, one, twenty-two, seventy-three, and those three sitting over there under the tree, yeah! They, too, belong to you, not me.
Meanwhile, your children, every last one of them, look at them. They're there trying to count on some things too; they're trying to count on everyone else, and everything else, but you.
Because they know very well that they can never count on you. Your female folks, too, and the mother of your children, boy! Oh, how well she cooks the well-seasoned stew, for guess who? "No Joy." But, what else does she do, other than screw the cap off the oil can and pour it over on them while cooking the stew? She leaves hers, yes, her very own children, to go off cooking and caring for the other woman's pickney dem. For a paycheck from them.
Money, she then goes off and spends in shopping malls and market stalls, their shopping malls, even. Trying to buy pretty looks for herself, maybe, and for the children's help, sometimes, lately. Decking them out in pretty nothings and shine. Putting it on them, but never even stopping for a minute to think about the possibility of putting it in them. Or something else, perhaps, like, something of value, or just, something healthy. So, they end up just as shallow and worthless as the other one. You know, the one who's standing right there before you in the shopping line. Or going off to the Showtime, sometimes, in the same shopping line, even.
"Don't overthink it," they say, and you willingly obey. But what if they're preparing you for something that is coming along, down the way? What if they're conditioning you to take leave of your senses (of thinking?) Well, okay, let's just say? What if they don't want you to think at all, just take and follow instructions coming from them and wink at their beckoned call? Suit someone somewhere just fine, one might think. And you? You went along with it to your undoing, we think, and for trying to fit in. Fitting snugly into it. Whatever you do, don't ever think, it's a very bad thing, so don't do it, I'm warning you, oh. Now, spit.
Have you gotten a copy of the Manley book yet? What are you waiting for? How to Train a Wild Puppy Dog Named Manley is a riveting, coming-of-age love story, Jamaican yardie-style. Get your copy now on Barnes and Noble, Kobo, or wherever books are sold, you know the drill, just Google it up.
Note: the Manley book was the catalyst for this book, it was this book: How to Train a Wild Puppy Dog named Manley, "the Manley book," that was to have gotten the folks all riled up and got the author benched from activities in the church, and now, here he is, along with the old man, telling you the rest of the story from his mouth. Go on, get the Manley book so that you may be better able to put it all in its proper context and perspective. Out. To be continued.
WritingElk.
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