Covered in rust from pig iron girders, and dust from the nicks in old bricks that time cracks
I cannot relax and wish
I could just blow up those buildings and stack them in mounds on the ground,which I realise is no different to what they are now.
Fred Dibnah would know how
he would have taught me,teached me
he was a preacher man
and could demolish with polish as easy as pie, all those monstrosities that scrape at the sky (they should bow)

It should be back to the drawing board for those clowns in the towers of the towns where the ring roads depress us.compress us until we’re back in the mould.
and the old men in whitehall who still play billiards with no balls should heed what we say,
we don’t want it this way.
We want works, we want perks,we want more out of this living that you are not giving and we’re sick,
do you hear?
we are sick to the pits which no longer exist except in the memories of miners and women who scrabbled through dirt and put scraps of coal in their skirts and then carried them home.
Poverty is the bone upon which poor people chew
but be careful down there
one day it may be you
that’s being eaten
being beaten
by us.

©John Smallshaw all rights reserved