The
flowers burst out through the bars,
Reaching
out toward the cars.
A
kind I have not seen before,
White
and spiky balls of light
Which
glow in the warm springtime night.
Their
escapist exuberance
Creates
a kind of balance with
The
crucified trees that lie within.
Nailed
upon an iron frame
They
seem to almost be in pain.
When
daylight comes the garden turns to vile;
The
winos sit upon their benches,
They
shout into their mobile,
Or
chat with drunken wenches,
Whilst
swigging from a can of special strength.
They
laugh and curse and dominate.
The
people keep on walking through,
This
garden's not for me and you.
Who'd
sit upon the next bench to
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