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Martha O'Brien Jun 2016
Robert tells me over curry
I’m sick of immigration,
stuffs Masala in his mouth and
sips his cup of tea.

There’s a poster on the wall
above the table in the kitchen,
There’s a diner, people laughing,
and a jukebox by the side.

Robert loves the ‘50s,
the dancing and the smiles-
when Britain won a war and
only 60 million died.

The carnival and music
passes by his window
he dances and he laughs,
marvels at the lights.

And when his car gets a scratch
He blames them on the corner
the shifty looking bloke,
He should go back home.

Robert tells me over curry
We’re going down the drain
and romanticises a past
that hurt more than it helped.

— The End —