Kyle King, Scotland ๐Ÿด๓ ง๓ ข๓ ณ๓ ฃ๓ ด๓ ฟ Poetry


Witnessing fights in your youth, the brutal truth, baseball bats used more proficient than Babe Ruth.

Cordoned off scenes in the streets, cops looking for proof, paw prints taken and stomped like a hoof.

Dogs barking, chasing the alley cats up the wrong tree, on the hunt to stop the wanted from being free.

Manhunts for the mad cunts trying tae flee, they do declare its a decree up against the criminal sprees.

No even scratching the surface, barely waking the fleas. Wary of the snitches taking bribes to gather nominal fees.

Trying to go on the bail and miss court pleas. Jurors showing up and sitting all at ease.

But can’t look at the innocent family getting brought to their knees. Sheriffs dishing out the sentence, throwing away the keys.

The cell door slams shut, no ifs or a but. Liberties’ taken, the con left to rot in a rut.

Categories: poem, truthTags: , , , , , , , ,

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