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A "Skrewball poem" , or in short "a Skrew" , is a poem with short lines and multiple rhyming or repeated words, often wi...

Saturday, 23 November 2002

Court Appearance

I’m back in court,

Back in the dock,

Waiting to receive,

My short sharp shock.

My mates in the gallery,

I give them a wink,

I play with my cuffs,

Close my eyes and think.

Why am I here?,

Why did I come?

Why didn’t I skip bail?

Go on the run?

I had no choice,

That’s fucking why,

Its like that old saying,

You don’t choose when to die.

Fuck the system!

Fuck the police!

Who gives a toss,

About a breach of the peace.

The GBH,

I can maybe understand,

Using the full force,

The law of the land.

But swearing at a pig,

Who gives a shit,

I sure don’t feel sorry,

For that copper I hit.

Attempted theft,

Well I did my best,

They caught me with some,

But I got away with the rest.

Stashed it up good,

Along with my drugs,

Never realised,

They had my house bugged.

At six o’clock AM,

They break down my door,

Drag me out of bed,

Cuff me up on the floor.

I struggle of course,

As much as I could,

But the pigs had me proper,

They beat me up good.

Banged up in a cell,

All day and all night,

Clucking my tits off,

With no end in sight.

They offered me money,

To grass on my mates,

But snitches are bad,

All informers I hate.

No comment interview,

Was the way to go,

I might get off,

You never know.

So they kept me locked up,

Until today,

Led me to court,

So what shall I say?

Shall I plead guilty,

Or go for innocence,

I might get off lightly,

For a first offence.

But it’s not you see,

My record is long,

I’m a very naughty boy,

Don’t know right from wrong.

I need a good spanking,

It might put me right,

But they’re sure to send me down,

Keep me well out of sight.

My brief does the blag,

But it isn’t enough,

I can sense in the air,

That I’m basically stuffed.

My lawyer argues hard,

Even makes me sound good,

But I can tell that the judge,

Thinks I’m a boy from the hood.

A danger to society,

He preaches from the bench,

The prosecutor smirks,

The ugly old wench.

They all want my blood,

I can tell by their stares,

I wouldn’t be surprised,

If I was sent to the chair.

So the sentence is read out,

I step back in shock,

The Group 4 guards,

Take me down from the dock.

5 years I’ve got,

Guilty I’m found,

Banged to rights,

I’m going down.

The gallery boo,

My Mum shakes her head,

I don’t think I’ll survive,

I’m better off dead.

I’m led away,

Down into the cells,

This is just the beginning,

Of my personal hell.

So the moral of the story,

Well it is of a sort,

Do whatever you want,

Just don’t get caught.


© 2002 All Rights Reserved Robert Reid


Another old poem I found from my 2002 website. It seems I was going to court a lot at that time from the contents!

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