They call him little Hitler.
Just doing his job,
not a dictator.
It wasn't a calling,
checking parking, hours walking,
passers-by snarl like dogs barking.
He dreamt of being a singer.
but it brought a bit of money in.
Blue hair grimaces in distaste
at the cluttered storefronts,
garnished with litter and tortured faces.
The cold wind haunts.
She despairs at the fashions,
all so loud, so garish.
The dashing people,
dazzling colours flourish
but for her it's too much.
Goth girl goes around in circles,
seen her four times already.
Repeating the same pounding
beat of the streets,
mascara smearing cheeks.
A rainstorm cloud,
a lifetimes tears cried.
Can't face what is at home,
an empty room, where the cot lays
with no baby inside.
Drive-by drug deal,
crackhead getting high.
Get them hooked
on their special supply.
Little Hitler would have taken
their number plate
but it's getting late.
Shift is nearly over,
then it's down the road
to drain some pints,
drown his sorrows.
Karaoke night follows
at the pub on the corner.
Pink hair, smiles blare
in the mid-afternoon sun.
Laughter and cheer.
into the night
to have some fun.
Blue hair sneers.
It's all changed over the years.
Why so glum?
Headphones and long hair,
lazy eyed stare,
glances at the girl
with candyfloss locks.
Bounds by listening
to the sounds of rock.
New music just won't do,
it doesn’t glisten nor shine
like the old songs used to.
Chewing gum stuck underfoot,
long hair runs for the bus.
Driver glances,
I'll just drive on he thinks for a second,
let him take his chances
but his conscience
wouldn't let that sit for very long.
So, he pulls up, beckons
and long hair gets on.
Thanks for reading
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