The newspapers reporter
Fom a dead town in North East
With a creased and dirty crimpalene suit
Holes in shoes upon his feet.
Outside the woollen hatted photographer
Camera deep in someones face
A badge upon his feeble frame
A grin with each snap he takes.
The statue of so called justice
Two peasant children in its grasp
Ugly writhing pleading
To its executioner in bronze.
Nearby the fountains whisper
With clear water that is sprayed
While a monstrosity of art
A bottle with holes is displayed.