My Door

Don’t knock on my door I cannot come play again
Don’t want to see the sheer shame on my face again
From the words of a dispassionate charity case
Hope for a time when your smiles are genuine

What would you say if you went back and spent a day
Sat beside your teenage self, unhinged with dissaray
Tell him to work his life, to buy the time, to then feel fine
Or hold him tight, bum and light and tell him life’ll be alright

You always felt you missed a class
or missed the point, couldn’t be arsed
But you’ll meet the man whose greatness makes you greater
Who’ll teach you loves not blood, a mate’s a brother

Don’t block your pores with the paint from a newsagent
I want to see the clean sheen, smell your own fragrance
With twothirds of my mind on your thighs I’m tripling in size
Don’t speak for a time, let me run, arise and urbanize

Vacuous platitudes daze my malaise
Sticky clichés from the good old days
When even the national anthem stood and praised
And sung in time to their jerked-on dossiers

If hatred breeds far quicker underground
You must smell hate in a high-rise compound
Where terraced grind summarily drowned
Their cobbles choked our post-peace breeding ground

Don’t knock on my door, I shan’t come play again
Don’t want to see the sheer shame on my face again
From the words of a composed remedial case
Hope for a time when our smiles are geunine

 

© Owen Emmerson & Michael Whitehead (2013)

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