A Midnight Woman to the Bobby

No palm me up, you dutty brute, You’ jam mout’ mash like ripe bread-fruit; You fas’n now, but wait lee ya, I’ll see you grunt under de law. You t’ink you wise, but we wi’ see; You not de fus’ one fas’ wid me; I’ll lib fe see dem tu’n you out, As sure as you got dat mash’ mout’. I born right do’n beneat’ de clack (You ugly brute, you tu’n you’ back?) Don’ t’ink dat I’m a come-aroun’, I born right ’way in ’panish Town. Care how you try, you caan’ do mo’ Dan many dat was hyah befo’; Yet whe’ dey all o’ dem te-day? De buccra dem no kick dem ’way? Ko ’pon you’ jam samplatta nose: ’Cos you wear Mis’r Koshaw clo’es You t’ink say you’s de only man, Yet fus’ time ko how you be’n ’tan’. You big an’ ugly ole tu’n-foot Be’n neber know fe wear a boot; An’ chigger nyam you’ tumpa toe, Till nit full i’ like herrin’ roe. You come from mountain naked-’kin, An’ Lard a mussy! you be’n thin, For all de bread-fruit dem be’n done, Bein’ ’poil’ up by de tearin’ sun: De coco couldn’ bear at all, For, Lard! de groun’ was pure white-marl; An’ t’rough de rain part o’ de year De mango tree dem couldn’ bear. An’ when de pinch o’ time you feel A ’pur you a you’ chigger heel, You lef’ you’ district, big an’ coarse, An’ come join buccra Police Force. An’ now you don’t wait fe you’ glass, But trouble me wid you’ jam fas’; But wait, me frien’, you’ day wi’ come, I’ll see you go same lak a some. Say wha’?—’res’ me? — you go to hell! You t’ink Judge don’t know unno well? You t’ink him gwin’ go sentance me Widout a soul fe witness i’?