Letter from Decatur, A.D. (After Death)

The world was intent on convincing me that I am a savage,
I am obliged to the concession. Skulking about in a red hot haze,
half crazed and cannibalistic. I was warned of my potential for impropriety, scrutinized for my dormant greed. Wasn't I the bastard! The bastard who burned down the village! The man who spit on the church stairs! Am I not the hooligan? The hooligan who tormented you, doggedly chased you in the streets howling with fever. Didn't I slap your hand, and turn away! Am I no the anointed one? Searched out and given signature by our elders. Am I not your greatest insult? I've been drinking, I'm drunk. Drunk off of my own demons. I'm dying. I'm dying and I don't even have the courage to care. I've cast my lot, don't mourn for me. I'm already gone.

I'm not so good at talking but I hope you understand what I'm trying to say.

-Bob Marley