This Is England

 

the empty cardboard

coffee cup groans with hunger

eyes to eyes to anything

that isn’t eyes

clothes that itch with dirt

the taste of yesterdays soup

settles against teeth

 

sleep is the enemy

dulling your hopes of escape

if the spiteful arrive

with mean intentions

and brown leather boots

 

head bowed against the world

not looking for pity

just looking for hope

amongst the foreign coins

 

my head doesn’t work

it misleads me with its sketches

 

when the wind blows

and the rain pours

I drag myself

inside myself

and let the weather

beat its tattoo

across my huddled bones

 

the grey falls

then the black

then the blackness

 

slipping the slope

and when I wake

I am wet with

taunting urine

from the hanging judges

gathered for fun

 

this is England

where the weak are prey

this Is England

where the homeless pray

this Is England

 

my England…