Margate - 11.01.2025

Walking around the desert-like beach
A few groups of locals
	Sustained by a diet of fish, crab, and beer -
		Not a tourist in sight
In the summer, I imagine,
	It must be quite different
But at this time of year
	This tourist trap becomes a hole
The grey skies blanket the chilly town
And the fog over the sea
	Covers the warships on the horizon
And all over the dilapidated walls
	Stickers, posters, banners, and flags
		As if on the eve of a revolt
The blare of a cop car passing by
	Gently reminds that this is not the case
Quietly and out of the way, life goes on
Where just two score years ago
	Bovver boys and girls 
		Were keeping the bobbies busy
Now it's a kingdom of cheap chippies
	Frozen in the vinegary air
Where every glimmer of hope
	Is dimmed by the neon-lit arcades
And even though I've left this smalltown blues behind
	My boots are still stained with the cold sand