Guildford Street

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Day 74 180711 366@40


What once was desirable, now such a mess,
A road for gentry, now always in press.
It survived the blitz, came through almost intact,
The people who lived, together in their pact.

I was a resident, of the troubled street,
People who you pass, didn't want to meet.
The bile of hatred, the fun of pain,
Each night you hope, it wont happen again.

A windows is smashed, a man lies dead,
Police car in flames, will improve they said.
Drug dealers do live, and houses are burned,
Spray paint on car, the pain we learned.

Man pushed out window, lands on a car,
A stabbing last night, up road not far.
High on his drugs, with threats to you,
The police don't react, what can they do?

Quick in your house, he has a gun,
Hiding behind your sofa, is certainly no fun.
The kids do come, cut all your wires,
When phones don't work, they light the fires.

Each day the same, the night you slept,
Shed is broken open, tools gone you kept.
The night they come, music up so loud,
People of all cultures, do form a crowd.

The anguish of life, live with the bile,
You property is broken, you car is defiled.
Things you do own, taken with no thought,
They act just like, for them you bought.

Law could not cope, people could not go,
The trouble got worse, at boiling point you know.
Answer to it all, these houses torn down,
Move all the bad, other parts of town.

The last few houses, left on the street,
Were given a facelift, made to look neat.
But drive on past, and what you know,
Some are boarded up, the trouble didn't go.

A sad tale indeed, to houses so old,
The history they had, no longer be told.
Just some wild grass, and an empty plot,
One hundred old houses, the world has forgot.

 
 
Copyright 1990 - 2013 Craig Wadner