Purley

8:30 AM and I watch through a mist of resentful defeat,
another facet of this unflinching emotionless machine
A workhouse for the working-poor’s prise possessions.

Afar I see the small distorted faces of those told of their malevolence and evil,
those encouraged to leave quietly,
to think of others, to not make a fuss, being quietly squashed by professionalism’s conformist heel.

The Ruling White Males don’t let a glance escape
an eye’s notice a reserve of punishment and discipline;
too valuable for the mundane pleasantries of the young’s every day.

The Black Females, they’re the Bad Kids,
overly loud, tactile and quite too negroid, their hair illegal  fitting
A culture unfitting of moral good behaviour.

It seems the Blacks hate the Gays says the one of the Ruling Males,
the division lies in the beholders blind eye,
unaware that many are one in the same.

Nevertheless,  the swathes of young cease,
the school’s front quietens,
the Congolese Janitor closes the gate The Males left open.

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