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Keele Street
I’ve got no love, ‘til I hear that "one-drop" come
I’ve got no heart, ‘til I hear that rhythm start
And see me ready, ready, feel the rock steady
Gonna rock it, all night, layin’ down a heavyweight dub-sound,
on the 41 Northbound
‘Cross the Thames off the Vauxhall Bridge,
right into Brixton Town, hear dem West Kingston boys,
bustin’ out the rub-a-dub sound
Handsworth, Lagos, Brooklyn too, you’ll hear the rhythm sweet,
but sound the alarm, when Babylon beat down Keele Street
I’ve got no love, ‘til I hear the "one-drop" come
It’s in my blood, this wicked rub-a-dub
When dem lick down Keele Street
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Brother
Do you remember, we’d take shots out on the driveway?
You were always Dryden, I was Bobby Orr,
and sometimes you’d even let me score
We’d play soccer in the park, stay out after dark,
listening to Dennis Brown on our sister’s radio,
and talking ‘bout the girls we wanted to know
Then one day, a word spoken out of place
Then ten years, trying to save face
Are the stars still brighter when you’re north of the city?
With a view straight to heaven, well, we’re not to be pitied
No need to say a word after all this time,
it’s good to have you back - brother of mine
And time stood still, I don’t know how,
but just like then I’d take a bullet for you now,
so drink this cup o’ kindness for "Auld Lang Syne",
it’s good to have you back - brother of mine
July seemed so much hotter - was it 1985?
That big Toronto heatwave and I never felt so alive
Now I can’t recall all this fuss
Is it too late to bridge this sea between us?
I stacked ten years of questions row on row
Those things don’t matter to me now, all I want to know
Are the stars still brighter when you’re north of the city. . .
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Walk on a Sunday Morning
J. Wilson
Copyright 2004
This ain’t no "Kingston 12" but we had our problems still,
oh, on that I can be sure
No Gorbals Razor King and no gunman like Rhyging,
but we had our share of thieves and whores
But when I look back I would not change a thing
‘Cause we learned to laugh and then we learned to sing
Take a walk on a Sunday morning, on the streets that you call your home
‘Round the north fork of St. Regis, before the factories came
Take a walk on a Sunday morning, and your glad just to be alive
No care had I when I was in my daddy’s arms, no care had I at all
A smile on every child from Stilecroft to Derrydown,
when we closed our books in June
Or at twenty-four below, and you’d shout out ‘next goal wins’:
shinny by the light of the moon
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Hands In The Water J. Wilson Copyright 2004
I think we’ve got a problem and you don’t seem to care
You know all about justice but with me you’re hardly fair
I’m not the only one who sees it, others ask me why
It’s not too hard to explain, it’s not too hard to try
You once called me a "son of God", but let’s not forget -
you once called me "brother" and you once called me "friend"
With your hands test the water, put your heart in the struggle
We’ll call it a victory, ‘cause it’s good enough for me
With our hands in the water, see the past in the distance
We’ll shake on the future, ‘cause it’s good enough for me
Why don’t you step out of the shadows, leave that silent darkness be
I look forward to seeing the you for you, if you could only see the me for
me
There’s no use recounting, those things that brought us to divide
Well there small enough for us to forget, if we’re big enough to put them
aside. . .
I think we’ve got a problem, I think we better care. . .
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Sometimes
In March
Sometimes in March I hear children laughing
and if I think hard I can see them smiling too
With their grandma sitting at the foot of a street lamp
staring out into the day -
that Pinjar parked his car,
Pinjar loaded his gun
Pinjar took his family one by one
Yellow tape across the maple tree,
policeman telling us, ‘there’s nothing here for you to see’
No one heard when they had fought, how could they have not?
And no one even heard a single shot
Sometimes in March I hear children crying
They sent the kids home early from school that day
Everyone’s got problems, and I’m sure they had their problems, but. . .
Let’s just take care of each other, lend a hand to your brother
Don’t let your sister down, help your father from the ground
Be kind to a stranger, love thy neighbour
Do your mother proud - smile.
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Those Long Winters
Well there was Angus who came frae Ayrshire,
he’d got work in a boatyaird on the Clyde
Well he packed it in lads when he came to Canada,
took a Guelph lass for his bride
Well there was Delroy from the Manchester area,
toiled in Bauxite back a’yard
Had a wife name Marcia and t’ree pickneys
Came a’ Toronto and it was hard
For those long winters can make you homesick -
can make you long for the ones you love
But come the springtime, you start to wonder -
maybe here can be home
And there was Franco from Calabria
in his garden is where he spent his time
Crossed the Atlantic and with these same hands
he helped to build this city’s subway line. . .
And now Angus sails Ontario
Delroy’s oldest plays goal in "Junior B"
The fruit of Franco tastes like no other
And there’s no other place they’d rather be. . .
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