These broken streets around my home,
I once was proud to call my own.
Have now become so worn and grey.
This town has seen much better days.
Buildings new surround the old,
we watch the modern landscape grow.
A true depiction of our times?
Just look below those building lines.
Pavements strewn with putrid mess,
filled with so called homelessness.
Intimidating groups decree,
“I need your change to fill my needs.”
Shouting, swearing, spitting swine,
they won’t get a council fine.
Debris dumped upon the ground,
it’s looking like a shanti town.
I know that some may snub this rhyme,
suggest I’m cruel and that is fine.
But blinkered views won’t cure this kink,
I only write what others think.
We’ve watched this epidemic grow,
a product of the seeds we’ve sown .
Addicts playing homeless games,
when most have homes yet feel no shame.
They steal the hope of honest men,
those whose plight is genuine.
And pray upon the weak and kind,
We need to stop and draw a line.
In earnest we must stand before,
all those who preached intent to cure,
the rot that’s spreading like disease,
and ask how long they plan to leave,
this wretched growth within our town,
that’s set to bring our spirits down?
Manchester, upon your throne,
I’ve loved you like you were my own.
But sadness lurks to bring me down
If we can’t save my home, this town.
P. A. Davies 2020
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