Press Play Above And Follow Along With The The words Below
At eight the boys take up their guard,
At each end standing, watching hard.
A whistle calls, a signal clear,
For every car that dares draw near.
The street they claim as bed-sit land,
A place the police let slip from hand.
Once dubbed the worst this nation knew,
The truth was harsh, yet spoken true.
By day the blinds are closed, asleep,
By night the shadows crawl and creep.
A lawless brood, with fearless eyes,
Where innocence and mercy dies.
A drunk returns, his steps unsure,
The blows descend, the screams endure.
Bloodied bodies left to rot,
Or dragged inside, their torment wrought.
The women meet a subtler snare,
A punctured tyre, despair laid bare.
A kindly voice, a guiding hand,
A trap too cruel to understand.
A sudden crack, a body still,
The van awaits to take its fill.
Another car will take its place,
Another victim’s fleeting grace.
The neighbours watch yet dare not speak,
The gangs ensure their silence bleak.
Three basements burnt in grim display,
A warning none would disobey.
Reporters shrugged, the stories died,
The gangs grew rich, the law stood by.
Till rising rents forced them to flee,
Their evil spread elsewhere, set free.
But streets like these still hide their scars,
Behind the pubs, beneath the stars.
Where law is blind and greed holds reign,
The streets of shame are born again.
……….. Catch You Later ………..
.
.