I could hav been a builder A painter or a swimmer I dreamt of being a Rasta writer, I fancied me a farmer I could never be a barber Once I was not sure about de future, Got a sentence an I done it Still me angry feelings groweth Now I am jus a different fighter, I sight de struggle up more clearly I get younger yearly An me black heart don't get no lighter. I will not join de army I would work wid malt an barley But here I am checking me roots, I could work de ital kitchen But I won't cook dead chicken An I won't lick nobody's boots, Yes I could be a beggar Maybe not a tax collector I could be a streetwise snob, But I'll jus keep reciting de poems dat I am writing One day I'll hav a proper job.