WIRE HOME THE RAGE
Come on now, wire home the rage, bring the fires to
the hearth, let the whole world see your age. This is not
some damsel-wastrel pauper in distress, no Pauline in
peril down the rail-tracks' stretch. This is real life you
miserable wretch.
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How many times have I imagined the dagger in your brain -
my most beautiful silver-handled one, piercing the shit of
your brow, watching the filth seep out. I would laugh
like a cavalier clown - a different name in every country
I went, my Charlie Chaplin overview all yours.
They haven't caught me yet.
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'Scram-the-ram on the baby's pram.' That's how
they call it in Borstal and Bristol you know,
about stealing a Paki child and running him down.
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