I was standing on this corner.
Was it east or west London, no! I just remember.
It was somewhere in the Brixton area.
Me, and big bum, apple breast Cassandra,
Dark velvety skin, cherry lips, designer nails on finger.
That’s another story; we’ll talk about that later.
Anyway, it wasn’t summer, but the sun was hot that day.
Urks!! The law, you can’t imagine that play.
They were out in seconds, and one say
“If you are Jamaican, ass-hole, pray”.
If this were my island, I certainly would have run.
But this is England, and cops don’t carry gun.
I was wrong, as one said “Spit it out dealer”.
A punch to the stomach, my foot fly high
then a scream from Lorna.
My head hit ground, before my foot was down
that’s all I can remember.
-
Author:
Black Rage (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: July 8th, 2010 17:41
- Category: Sociopolitical
- Views: 110
- User favorite of this poem: Jorge G Sifuentes.
Offline)
Comments4
Great poem bruv!
nice poem especially the rhythem
I can see your talent...
I'm sure there is more...
take it away!!!
hugs
good to read...
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