The Fairytale Of Preston

The Fairytale Of Preston

written by: James Walmsley

 

The Preston streets are dark and damp,
in a doorway sleeps a hapless tramp.
Once a proud soldier a father a son,
now just a bum ignored and spat upon.

Down the road by a dirty rubbish bin,
sit a young woman rattling her tin.
Asked for a pound but hoping for more,
shaking, she’s crying frozen to the core.

The rain is lashing scouring her face,
a human tragedy a bloody disgrace.
No Ballgown for her, no coiffed hair
just a dirty rusty tin empty and bare.

Down Cheapside by a Flag Market stall,
a ragged man lay by the museum wall.
No longer loved no longer a human being,
the crowd walk past no longer seeing.

Preston City streets are full of shame,
in the cold just the homeless remain.
Some will cry and some try to get by.
the Council cares not if they live or die.

The Councillors sit in their iniquitous den,
steal twenty million with a stroke of a pen.
They have no conscience they have no guilt,
It’s a little private fiefdom they have built.

In Preston City’s shabby streets of pain,
the Councillors revel a what they gain.
Time now for Preston to stand and fight.
and rid our City of this malignant blight.

The Councillors gather for their Xmas party,
dressed up, laughing all hale and hearty.
The Mayor touches his chain of gold,
as a young woman lies dead in the bitter cold.

 

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:

This is about the homeless people of the world that politicians find troublesome.