Doubled over Stella cans

crawling from last night's 10p home.

Late brunches for the new majority

waking within a block who's characters are now alone.



Previously untouched by the new,

the heavily worn and stained wooden

chair now longing for stories of the few.

The old exacerbated, they couldn't



see it coming. Their home.

Now a haven for the new.

A new Mecca for creativity with no retreat

For those left behind.



Doubled over Stella cans.

This used to be free the old fuss.

Now there's no home for them.

Their 10p shelters gone with a gust.

They're digging up the cobbles in our street,
moving them to a classier area.
We'll be given tarmac, black and soft in the sun.

Yes, even here it shines - on men's vests.
They're red faced, drinking from lager cans,
while their women finger scarved curlers.
At least, that's what others think they see.

But neighbours do talk with us.
There's a code of decency,
though Mum says, 'some have hearts
as black as the tarmac'.

There's a hierarchy,
in minds and heads,
if not in pockets.

Some day the toffs will turf us out,
gentrify our street. We'll be moved,
filed vertically, pigeon lofts in the sky.
Then they'll bring our cobbles back.