This blackboard
Weighs heavy
Board rubbers
Leave scars
Exam board
Inspections
To the drawing board
My son
You need curriculum
Strong discipline
So pull up your socks
Stand tall and breathe in
Why am I not rich?
Why is my back sore?
What made us linear?
What did Grandad die for?
Why are there armies?
And whos on our side?
Where does the sun rise?
And where does it hide?
Back to bed
You're dreaming again
Safety in numbers my friend
Picked from a shelf
Sent on parade
Forty hours weekly
Slave for a way
To pick from a shelf
Send on parade
Children of fortune
Make children of fame
Why is this yours?
Why wasn't it mine?
Why do the clocks keep on ticking off time?
Why are there nightmares?
And who made my shoes?
Why are there children shedding blood on the news?
Back to bed
You're dreaming again
Safety in numbers my friend...
Not mine to dedicate, but I will anyways. To Baby P. Who’s 17 fleeting months of life were composed of bruises and cuts and screaming. An ear semi-detached from the head, a bite wound on the head, the tip of a finger stripped from nail and skin, and a spine broken in three places. And that’s physical pain. The fear, and confusion and horror he must have gone through. Not even a proper name for his existence. Just Baby P.
If there is a God...he must be weeping.
Back to bed...you’re dreaming again
1 comment:
Apparently now, when (should be if tbh...) his 'mother' gets out of prison, the taxpayers are going to be paying for a new house, identity change and round the clock police protection. Apparently, letting the public know her name is against her 'human right to life'. How do you like the irony?
Post a Comment