X marks the spot
where you drew your pencil dagger.
Scribed it sharply, with finality,
rubbed us out.
Gobbed on us
Trod on us
and robbed us
of our chances.
In the privacy of a booth
you placed your cross.
Forgetting that now
it is a cross we all must bear.
Pirates searching for treasured scraps,
fighting over the meagre loot.
scrapping over what is theirs.
Marking their territory by
pissing on the weak.
You’ve made your mark.
Torn out our hearts.
Fed them to your greedy masters.
Until our chests are empty caverns,
with wounds too great for sticking plasters.
The festering stump of a sick, selfish nation.
Like a good Christian
you smiled at your cross,
put yourself first and stabbed us in the heart.
Sleep well in your spot and know your place.
While we burn your crosses to the ground.