Drumtown Estate

The chain swings from the crane,

Beckoning the builders,

To come and erect steel pikes,

And begin the fight for houses.

Hundreds of thousands are here,

Of money pumped by the dopes,

Of people holding hands with banks,

Of hungry, horny lords.

Past them are the ghosts,

Of architect dreams dashed,

A single house echoed for miles,

Promising nothing; not hopes.

Busy men, all men, waste away,

Making work first and homes second,

Making more than enough,

But still no change.

On cold cobble streets,

You’ll find a sprawling town,

Of rustling sleeping bags and tents,

Pulled tight for warmth.

And on windy, wintery nights,

As you’re lucky to head home tired,

The tight, taut skins are drummed,

Filling the town in rumble.

Photo by Mikhail | luxkstn on Unsplash

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