When the gang vermin, thrashing hard,
had left me fit for the scrap-yard
and the guard outside Ward Three
rebuked my swearword-peppered thrum
of “Let’s just shoot the thick chav scum”,
no warm arms comforted me.
Empty-futured and stood in line,
no choice but stack a shelf or sign,
no benign help from the tree
of justice that states nothing harms
my kind, we’re all Sirs and Madames,
no warm arms comforted me.
At fifty-nine my father croaked.
He’d boozed, industrially smoked
and provoked not one degree
of my thanks, and as he transformed,
entombed, into a flaming swarm,
no warm arms comforted me.
Each year and then each year again
all my love gurgles down a drain,
disdained and serving no needs.
But I won’t hold just any hand.
I’ll be the horse to no-one’s brand.
And in my land – hatred breeds.
