Shielded behind Met. blue
I shoulder my silver numbers:
A Papa-Lima protector
On south-east London streets.

Riding shotgun all night
Dripping with closing time doner
Adolescent adrenaline
Fueling my every move.

I scan the heavy streets
On the prowl for grateful victims, 
Burying old delinquent doubt
Beneath my cool, blue strobe.
-
A wet behind the ears
Raring juvenile constable,
Abandoned and sanctioned
To bully and to bruise,
And then perhaps to scar
For good.