Grate in Great Britain

I saw the grubby poor in the high street, wearing Nike shoes, the only pair, worn for a year, laid out the cash to a back street shifty, looking flash and nifty with his gold tooth and rotten, impetuous youth 

I recognised the tainted scent of marijuana, pungent shit on a stick wafted with the smell of sick, knock off eau de cologne’ masking a grotesque odour of the body, a tracksuit worn of the finest, dirty, old and torn

Counting sixteen, neigh twenty two, European nationals, where from?, who the bloody hell knows, hand out, begging for money to waste on smokey joes, departed from poverty and war torn hell

It’s just as well, waiting in the line queuing for everything, the white ruffian whore that swore, she doesn’t know a thing of life, grown into nought but living on the doe, crack cocaine, shit just the same

The High Street dead or dying, ‘Peasantville’  it’s name, it used to be grand with the finest shops around, now deserted and filthy, best item for cash if you dare risk the rash, still it’s cash, money in the pit

Girls go there in their ‘primaries’ robes with slippers on the feet, black eyebrows, jewellery in the beak, fat guts out in the midriff, looking for a spliff, skinny white boy says “looking sweet bitch” 

While scratching his itch, education is for the rich.