I’ve heard upon the grapevine,
Violence is the music of the streets,
When a body hits the tarmac,
And no saviour is around to hear it,
Does it make a noise?

I say yes,
Each thump and kick is percussion,
A backset to our tarmac orchestra,
Each cracked rib is a shrill trumpet,
The screams are background static,

It’s a painful song,
Played by novices in hooded shirts,
They’re proud of their work nonetheless,
Perpetrators scurrying away is their crescendo,
Followed by applause and gurgles.

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