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♪♪

♪♪

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The greatest ever arranger of pan is an Indian.

This poem is about him.

Jit Samaroo of Surrey Village, Arouca,

where the poet comes from,

Arouca that is.

Africa that is.

Through coastal port, through boat,

through fire, through sugar cane,

through tamboo bamboo, and the match through.

Never returning to the land again.

Through returning to the land again.

♪♪

The poet knows all sorts of things right now.

He is convinced he is inside the belly of his greatest

work ever. Rum will do that.

♪♪

The poet knows the code, knows what it means

to have six simultaneous melodies locked away forever.

It is deep in the calypso,

this burying of one's best clothes.

It is deep in the calypso, this burying.

It is deep in the calypso,

this burying of one's best clothes.

Jit is an Indian arranging pan.

Jit sees pan invented and killed for.

This, too, how we bury our clothes.

Make sure nobody claim what we claim.

Make sure nobody claim what we claim.

Make sure nobody claim what we claim.

This, too, how we bury our clothes.

Make sure nobody claim what we claim.

Imagine Jit, all this music, six melodies at once

dedicated to the same arrangement.

Imagine Jit, all this music,

six melodies at once dedicated to the same arrangement,

The poet knows the code.

Knows what it means to have simultaneous melodies

locked away forever.

It is deep in the calypso.

It is deep in the calypso. It is deep.

It is deep in the calypso, this burying of one's best clothes.

♪♪

Hear the length of the vowels he leaves for the wunderkin Indian.

Such that arrangement, melody, arrangement, melody,

second melody during first melody,

third melody during second melody,

fourth melody during third breakdown

in the rhythm section.

The guitar, pan, the minor rising

in the way the church feared it would

so they called it the devil.

So they called it the devil. So they called it the devil.

So they called it the devil.

♪♪

♪♪

The poet is watching film of renegades

piling melody after melody on top itself,

half expecting to see his 18-year-old self

in the crowd because he was there.

And this is how black men bury their clothes.

This is how black men bury.

This is how black men bury by being there,

by being there, by being there,

by not having to rely on legacy.

This is how black men bury their clothes

because he was there and holding a woman, sweating to the music.

♪♪

How you keep all that music in your head

and not have it stolen eventually?

How you keep?

How you keep all that music?

How you keep all that music, all that music,

all that music in your head.

All that music in your head.

Forget it.

That's what you do, forget the music.

Forget Arouca, forget Mommy, forget Simpious boys,

forget the flute of chord from sharp

to what might be called flat.

How you keep?

Forget the flute of chord from sharp

to what might be called flat.

The poet is looking for himself in the film.

This is a metaphor with which the poet is familiar.

The poet is an immigrant

so he stays looking for himself in the year of his crossing.

The poet is looking for himself in the film.

The poet is looking.

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♪♪

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The poet is looking for himself.

This is a metaphor with which the poet is familiar.

The poet is an immigrant

so he stays looking for himself in the year of his crossing --

1987, 1845, 1712.

The poet is an immigrant.

The poet claims the Indian.

The poet claims.

The poet claims Arouca.

The Indian claims Arouca.

The poet claims the Indian arranger.

The Indian claims Arouca where the poet is from.

It does not matter.

Their clothes are buried.

The poet forgets things.

He relies on love to save them.

Jit is locked away in several building

and filed all memories of melodies.

All this beef is real, and still,

Jit is the greatest still.

Jit is the greatest still. Jit is the greatest.

Remember Jit is the greatest.

Remember that his mother played a mean dholak.

When he's dead, bury all his clothes.

When he's dead, bury all his clothes.

When he's dead, bury.

When he's dead, bury.

"Can't you see," says the poet, "bury all his clothes."

Can't you see, he relies on love.

"Can't you see," says the poet.

His memory and faith and love giving out finally.

Can't you see?

His memory and faith and love giving out finally.

Can't you see?

His memory giving out.

His faith giving out finally.

♪♪

♪♪

The purists ever arranger of pan is an Indian.

This poem is about him.

Jit Samaroo of Surrey Village, Arouca.

Arouca that is.

Where the poet comes from.

Africa that is.

Where the poet comes from.

The greatest ever arranger of pan is an Indian.

The poet knows the code.

This poem is about him,

Jit Samaroo of Surrey Village, Arouca.

The poet comes from Arouca that is.

Africa that is.

Through costal port.

Through fire.

Through boat.

Through sugar cane.

The greatest ever arranger of pan is an Indian.

This poem is about him.

♪♪

♪♪

[ Applause ]