He walks down the street

Can of beer held loosely

A mincing swagger

Like a forties tough guy

Or mad Vlad RasPutin

Looking at nothing

Seeing everything

Everyone that sees him.

His low sloping brow

Is hidden by the brim

Of a baseball cap

That does not belong in Britain.

Sometimes he wears a vest

Sometimes a hoody

Today it’s a bare chest

It is hot and sunny.

And even today

In the good warm sun

When all the world’s a friend

He looks lost

Apart from all the rest

Because he thinks bad things

Thinks in a bad way

About all the rest of us

We who are not him

And who are therefore

Against him

As we are

As we will be

As we always have been

Since the day

The thug

Was born.

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