Bhouji Gal
The constant smell of servitude
Cow dung paste on you mudda in law bottom house
You cook pun fireside till you tun Auntie Gobar
Now dem ah call you outside pickney sissy and the husband one big cat
Why this red flounce dress in hot hot Atlantic sun
When you pass by ahwe ah sheer lavender perfume you emanate
Ah which dead house you went before going to matinee, gal?
Never mind the black and blue, you still got looks like Hema Malini
Bhouji Gal
I know you know I dus like your roti and dhaal
But I does frighten fuh ask
Because me brotha does give a fine cut ass
When he send for a flatie and beat up all youh pickney
How Bhouji
The domestic violence of this family
Is like rice flour roti when it turn bassy
I hate the way she does call you out
From the bedroom and even the latrine
She think she mek you
Never mind me got fuh call her moma
But Bhouji
You got fourth standard education
And never mind me does tek a bob every time you send me to shop
I know you ain’t gun wear dem shorts and ride bicycle to Friday maaket
Because you belly done big and family planning isn’t in your basket.
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