Alma street

Worn red brick,
Moss on grey slate,
Crumbled,
A row of weary
Terraced soldiers,
Defeated.

Boarded up now,
The council won
That battle.
Marched tenants out,
Stuffed their pockets full.
The spoils of war
Came with no planning,
No permission.

Alma Street.

A cobblestone wasteland.
No poppies grow,
Just junkies
Shoot up,
Trapped tight in their
Terrible trenches.

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