Ghost Town

I live in Scunthorpe, quite a deprived little town, and the town centre is almost derelict as there are so many empty shops! I wrote this poem after a walk around town yesterday. Most video content is my own.

Great Poetry Gig coming up in Scunthorpe…

On Feb 7th I am really excited that I will be part of a spoken word poetry gig with the amazing Salford poet JB Barrington and the awesome Hull poet Jim Higo.
It promises to be a funny and poignant night with some brilliant, gritty, real life poetry.

It’s at Cafe Indiependent, Scunthorpe on February 7th, 7.30pm.
It’s a ticket event and tickets are £8, available at:

https://www.ticketsource.co.uk/whats-on/169-173-high-st/caf-indiependent/jb-barrington-lacking-poetential/2020-02-07/20:00/t-ryqlpd

Prime Shop to Let

Our little town is turning into a ghost town!
Warning, swearing.

Prime Shop to Let

Prime shop to let
As I walk through this ghost town centre
Prime shop to let
Prime shop to let.
Arrogant
As though they have the monopoly
Over the other shops
Who were once prime
Once to let
Now buckling under the weight of a money sucking landlord
And saying fuck you to Amazon Prime and the inventor of the World Wide Web.

Prime shop to let
To let
Toilet
That always amused me as a kid.
As though the empty walls were vessels for the shit that hit the fan
When the profits plummeted
And the game was up
And shop doors shut
And shop doors shut

And they are shutting
And they are shutting
In Scunthorpe.
Faster than the council can raise the council tax
Faster than the homeless’ belongings are confiscated by the police
Faster than the shoplifter’s legs when the shopkeeper gave chase
Faster than a line of coke up a druggy’s nose.
Faster than you can spell the cunt in Scunthorpe.

You can hear the rattle of the grim reaper’s bones
As he loiters with his scythe
Waiting, waiting
Chalk bone fingers cracking gleefully
Waiting, waiting
As the death bells knoll
and austerity takes its toll
and retail is just another rag doll
that the voodoo government have stuck their pins in
that the voodoo government have tossed around
like they don’t give a shit.
Because this is Scunthorpe and not Sandringham.

Scunthorpe
You may as well become a dot com
for the doors are shutting
the doors are shutting
and we don’t want any more charity shops
and even the poundshops aren’t pulling in the punters.
It’s all strolling around in your second hand coat
with your greasy kebab and your lottery ticket
and hoping you’ll get the bonus ball
when you’ll celebrate with a bottle of cheap Prosecco from Aldi
and a smiling photo in the Scunthorpe Telegraph.
Even the paper used to be nightly
But there’s only enough news for one week now.
And its always the same news. Always the same.

Prime shop to let.
Prime shop to let.
Prime town to let.

It’s sad.

© 2019 Sarah Drury

Taking away my working tax credits

Working tax credit

My working tax credit, my working tax credit
They’re taking away my working tax credit!
They say I am working, that I am a poet
That poetry pays well and don’t they just know it.
I‘m earning too much and that I am a big hit
Don’t they know that they’ve put me right in the fat pig shit.
Money don’t grow on trees, you can’t fake it or grow it
And with Brexit a coming we all will be poor Brits
And being a poet, the tax scapegoat coat fits
I’ll be selling my body to pilots in cockpits
If the tossers don’t sort it out.

My working tax credit, my working tax credit
They’re taking away my working tax credit
And soon I’ll be living on bacon and beans
With a side dish of spam for I won’t afford greens
And a glass of tap water for lager is pricy
And the men at the foodbank are rugged and spicy
And the chips at the chippy are soggy and dicey
And the price of a haddock makes it highly unlikely
That I will eat a decent meal
If the tossers don’t sort it out.

My working tax credit, my working tax credit
They’re taking away my working tax credit
And soon I’ll be wearing the bones of me arse
So it looks like Primark cos my knickers are sparse
And buying from Oxfam is a bleedin farce
Cos they’ve got no fat trousers to cover me arse.
And the blouses don’t cover my ample tits
And I feel suicidal when nothing good fits.
So a naked poet I will be
if the tossers don’t sort it out.

My working tax credit, my working tax credit
They’re going to stop my working tax credit
Boris, I bet you don’t have to sign on
With your arse on your chair in your capitalist lair
and your tory possie pushing more into poverty
You’re all heartless bastards, you really don’t care
and the children are starving and benefits are sanctioned
and the country is fucked and the system’s not fair.
So get off your arses you idle pen pushers
And sort out my money – NOW!

© Sarah Drury 2019