Every St.
Shots ring out; pit-bulls barking;
scads of shattered glass.
Another teenage journey lost;
gunned down for being a grass.
Used condoms on the cobbles:
stench of nappy-shit.
Brass and syringes block the crossing;
proof of pacifying hits.
Stolen grids and fly-tipped alleys,
overflowing bins.
Pizza boxes, chip-shop wrappers,
cans and empty tins.
In their armchair, lost and lonely;
grief at number two.
Life elapses filthy windows;
diddly squat to do.
Bandits with their hip-hop blasting
call at number four.
Loud and proud derogatory crowd,
booting down the door.
Juveniles in balaclavas
torment number six.
Tag the walls of diverse families,
lobbing stones and bricks.
Partner beats their spouse and children:
howls at number eight.
Police don't do a single thing:
social surround the gate.
A little lamb without her locks,
Gem at number ten.
Before long parted from her breath;
she prays each night. Amen!