Dewsbury

It lies straggling along the Calder.
A town that became lost;
A name more than a place.
People think they know what it stands for,
They don’t; they don’t live here.
Some who do say they don’t.
Centred with litter and empty shops,
One look above reveals
Growing weeds, slipping slates.
Dull-faced folk with shifty eyes and chips
Or sausage rolls or kids
Slouch around the fat streets.
A loud cascade of obscenities
Arpeggiates their talk
Along their plastic-bagged walk.
Even the covered women can swear,
Protected by the veil,
No culture diff’rence there.
Blunt Yorkshire here is now a weapon
Used to bludgeon others
Into a change of will.
Benefits, alcohol, drugs and waste.
Old people miss the past:
Hard work, Sunday Best.
Civil Servants can’t raise civic pride –
How can you inspire with
What you don’t have yourself?
The town straggles along and struggles,
But has the name of shame
So many like it don’t.