Two homeless in Dyatt Street
they asked me for money,
I said Sorry and wanted to leave,
but they stood in front of me,
I said: I don't know you. And they asked:
So who do you know?
I said nothing. I knew that might be it.
And I wanted to leave, I wanted them to let me go.
But I wasn't scared, no, I wasn't scared,
and they felt it, like dogs feel human's fear.
It was a one of a dark, narrow London streets,
evening, September 26th,
somehow no one was around.
They cornered me, and they could have done with me
anything they wanted. I heard them saying to each other:
Shall we **** this boy?
But they let me go,
they somehow let me go. Strange.
Maybe 'cause I wasn't scared of death,
'cause I was, kinda, one of them,
homeless, in a way,
someone who went through life's hell,
but not showing it, staying strong, brave,
hiding my secrets deep inside.
Maybe they realised
that I am one of them.
They let me go, ashamed.
