Someone said I shluld try poetry. This will be the only one I write, probably.
|Fifteen holes in a dead cop's chest,
Yo ho ho, retaliation at its best.
Slick, wet concrete, running with blood,
Cut-off and alone, in the wrong neighbourhood.
A thousand wrongs, avenged by one more,
A whip-lash of anger, birthed from decades of war.
As a nation bleeds, an empire crumbles,
Statues fall, as a government bumbles.
Ignored, abused, berated and bullied,
Pushed, shoved, their good names sullied.
How long did they expect the fragile ceasefire to hold?
In a society not built on love, but on gold?
Wealth at all cost, and to hell with the poor,
"But we've changed," they claim, then go on like before.
So it's fifteen holes in a dead cop's chest,
Yo ho ho, a vicious circle at its best.