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Tuesday, 7 October 2014

The Pawn



 He screams and shouts immigrant’s out
 As he guzzles another large stout.

He’s a true Brit, a master of self deception
He rolls his last cig and boasts he is proud.

Piss soaked, Stretch jeans in his middle years
Poor health and a broken life
A nice little gift from a grateful nation.

But still he worships the ones at the top
They grin as he blames the ones at the bottom.

There grin gets wider, they are off the hook again
He is like a living relic from old Gin Lane.

They sucked the goodness out of him.
They snuffed out any hope in him.
They dimmed the light in his eyes.

The perfect citizen Pawn

©Martin Hickman October 2014

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