The woman in that decrepid orange tent,
Is a certain class of people, chèrie,
She is most unequivocally depraved you see,
Dare I say she got B's in her GCSES.
The only option was fashion studies,
In a counterfeit glass brick university.
She earned perfect attendance for parties,
Then stamped a P45 for flipping patties.
When blessed with the gift of a baby,
She threw him to social workers at twenty,
After she poured all of her trust fund money,
Into ****** and methamphetamine,
And now she is latched to the high-street,
By traffic lights, sullen eyes and paper deciet,
Trying her best like a sticky little leech,
To scrape the sweat from our working feet.
A father says to his daughter some day,
A sea of orange tents are caught mid-sway,
If you squint hard enough from his ochre sofa,
Brushing the outer pixels, you can see the snow.
Day three of my attempt to write more poetry :)
Feedback is much appreciated.