Sonnet for a Northern Monkey

I woke to rain like pigeons scrapping in my bin,
the sort that wets your socks before you’re dressed.
Kettle clicks, the telly’s zoning in,
the toast goes black, it’s biscuits and we’re stressed.

The street’s half-lit, a wheely bin's been nicked,
some sod’s been tagging walls with “FUCK THE TORIES.”
Bus late, of course, and it smells of sick,
the driver grunts, swears, and sings his songs of glories.

A kid’s on loudspeaker, mouthing ‘bout his mum
her new bloke, a thief selling dodgy gear.
An old man lights a cig despite the “No,”
and nods at me like, yes, I am still here.

This town won’t shine, it’s chipped and full of scars,
but still, we walk it like we own the stars.