Free verse № 106776
Black streets of Hackney
Young men gang the streets looking for a time
Watch the clocks trickle time
Life makes no friends with dreams
They wear their ideals sold to them at full price
For the youth here destiny is only tomorrow
The answers are always under English rubber stamps
(which you can not have nigger)
Coldly smothering the fetus: rebellion
Night frays the edges of appearance
The whitehate blind dates the hateblack
They are unfaithfully with any passer by
Poverty stokes Hackneys fires
Burn the lands to dry barren earth
On which these dark seeds lay strewn.
5 comments
Anything but that.
But the identical rhyme , and wait - well, no rhyme scheme either. Hmm.
The language sounds like you are faking things English, strangely enough.
It is almost good, but somehow it smells crippled - mayhaps on purpose.
On which these dark seeds lay strewn."
If only the government would adopt a similar policy of ethnic fire bombing. Look at what Britain has become: Ethnic foods stain our cobbles, tainting the earth in vast swathes of brown; Ethnic smells pollute our parks and town squares, sullying our nostrils with the filth of distant, foreign lands; Ethnic wipes litter our streets and places of work - is it any wonder Gentlemen have taken to wearing gloves at all times? It's all decent, civilised people can do to keep from accidentally reaching for a teacup only to find you've picked up some monstrously soiled tow'lette instead. No Sir, this is not the land I once loved; a land in which all men were free to stroll through the gardens of St James, gay and carefree, unhampered by the constant, crippling fear that at any moment you could end up tredding on a giant upturned turban stuffed full of spicy sausage meats. -10-
That'll show those non-feotus-smothering government squares.
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