We wander among battered buildings south of the new
Bourgeois zone, the wildlife, the biped vermin, native
To a quickly shrinking habitat we call our own.
Our lives fit into shopping carts. Our ailments
Go untreated. Cops come by. They poke us with
Their sticks, and say we must move on, but we have
Have nowhere left to go. Some nights, we double back
Through alleys, vermin, to their bourgeois zone with
Lighters and some gasoline, and we set fire to what's
Been taken. If those buildings can't be ours, they also
Won't be theirs.

Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
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Written on 2018-06-19 at 22:28

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ken d williams The PoetBay support member heart!
And so it is, though out - This '' Civeralised '' world - so called
in this 21st cencherey!
surly going forward - BACK - to what was - is onece more as was - is now back as is - is is again!

yes, kant can The PoetBay support member heart!
better to die at home because of we than abroad because of them

That's sad. I have a problem with gentrification too because poor people need a place to live too. It's the same all over the world, but, honestly, I like the idea of setting fire to the houses if they can't have them, but that's the rebellious side of me. Thanks for this poem. It was needed.