This England

She has the face of a robber’s dog
He has the personality of a hog
Together they make a team
That’s right I said a team, ugly dream
They come to town to steal whenever they feel
The need for speed or maybe crack
When they’ve used it they’ll be back
For more. Yes, we deplore
But they know the score
We’ll do bugger-all held in thrall by politically correct
Bastards who, wincing at the thought of punishment,
Let them off once again with a fine that won’t be paid
Enough said!

They’ll then go home and breed more of their ilk
To be cocooned in silk from mother’s milk
Until the day they overdose and die. Why?
Surely tough love with a swift hard shove
In the right direction will help cure this infection

But whoa! I must be of the Right, right?
Judging by the inflection
Of this poem nowhere near perfection
Is it me who needs correction?
Or the world of those who pose as folk who know about right
And wrong and punishment of the weak and of the strong
So all is fair, politically correct and maybe right and not effective
Well we’re all social workers now so what do you expect?
With a politically correct perspective?