In the years surrounded by flesh,
Without one bone showing,
He looked something like this:

Marijuana smoke gently fluttering out of his nostrils.
His eyes were red like the Jamaican sunset sky.
He was constantly mellow
Never looking for any problems
Unlike the rest of society.
He would sit on his roof
With a joint in his lips
And watch,
Watch the crazy hectic people run by below.
Not enjoying life like life should be enjoyed

They all wanted to be successful
With nice cars
Nice homes
Nice pools
Nice toys

But to him,
Success was being loved
By mom, by dad
By sister, by brother
By wife, by kids
By everyone around him.
They all did too.
He had nothing to worry about
He waved the black dreadlocks out of his face
He picked up his notebook and wrote a song
He called it,
“Three little birds”