The Crowd


They gather now outside the gates, in ugly clumps of four or five,
From red brick streets and grey estates, built out of people’s empty lives,
To watch the match, hurl insults at the other team, the rival side,
Whose coloured stripes are not the same as theirs. It’s mental genocide.
There’s nowhere quite as lonely as the centre of the crowd
Of mindless, racist, baying idiots, whose tuneless dirge rings loud
Enough to echo off the walls like whale-song in Arctic seas,
A chant that rolls along the terraces with grey monotony.
They’ll laugh at almost anything that has the rhythm of the joke.
The empty swell of the accepting, where creative thinking chokes
In ugly weeds of patriotic thoughts and hateful, tribal songs.
It’s then you know just how alone you are within the senseless throng.

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