Caribbean darling, stem of my roots; Not one day, she goes by without wearing out her rosaries. To virtual masses, she attends ponctually. In her living room, she braids her nappy hair, contently: The Head of State ain't peeking.
Caribbean darling, stem of my roots; Not a quarter century, estranged, could wash away her hues. Every night, she throws amens while lining up deffered broadcasts in queue of news and polemics from the homeland. Over winters, her subversive tilt grew; but the Head of State ain't peeking.
Her sole desire is to wither beneath everlasting beams of sun as warm as in her memories.
Alas; heat's been curdling men bloods, heat's been driving them wild and vile, heat's been melting barons crowns, Every civilian is at war.
Caribbean darling, stem of my roots; in this savanna, she will never survive. And the Head of State? The Head of State knows.