Tracksuit clad youths push a mini motorbike
Steering round a drunk pissing up a red brick wall
Whilst his snot nosed infant throws stones, the little tyke
Wrecks a phone box, despite being only three feet tall.
Needles strewn along the kerb
Boarded up houses still inhabited, the house is cold - the Telly’s hot
Disenfranchised teens sit in crumbling grey bus shelters puffing herb
Communal grass doubles as a junkies improvised cot.
Upon the road in foot high bright white paint
Illiterate drug-orphans scrawled Fuk tha PoliceAwfully rude, yet rather quaint
Pity the support officer sent to proffer peace
A leading artist made us a sculpture here, once
It lasted two hours before the first tags stained
the now corroded loving effort as abandoned as community newsletters printed in comic fonts
Crumpled with an agony of twisted steel ill maintained
Grass that’s rarely ever mown
Cracked tiles, detritus in the holes similar to councillors lame words
Weeds poke between Happy Meals in flower beds overgrown
A thousand miles from pride fuelled suburbs
A crazed mut, worse than rabid patrols
Alongside nineteen year old Tanya pushing her wobbly second hand pram
Slaloming through dozens of ineptly unfixed pot holes
On her way to carry out a refund scam
All of these entertainments distract me not
Swinging the lead, my cost of living’s free
Reclining I survey my decent lot
As for years……. I’ve fiddled the good old D.W.P.
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