Who do they think they are, so sure,
as if white tiles have made a cell,
those uniforms, the ganging up?
They say confess, clean breast of it,
but I know they’ve poor evidence –
just lifted arms with shoulder wince –
enough for them, convinced it’s mine.
No hint, ‘You’ve got it’, blunt, they said;
but they’ve wrong man as I know best.
So self-assured, as duty ends
though I’ll be here when they knock off,
and I’ll still be when finished shift,
this lockdown place where I take rap.
For them, another case they’ve solved,
improving records in their stat’s.
But I’ll not take it lying down,
though right now frozen to the spot,
a quiver in my voice and hand,
as they expect their statement signed –
another write off in their scheme.
But what injustice, their design,
to close the file and wrap it up,
another victim pigeon holed –
unbalanced judgement where I stand,
as all I can, swayed argument.
You’ll get a shorter sentence, plead,
the bad cop, good cop honeyed voice,
but I have yet more things to do,
retirement plans from bucket list.
though my resistance they resent.
I’ll not be taking stick from them,
nor med’s, weak tea, reception desk.
So what words, me, this manor born,
this once bad boy tries proving good?
Used by permission of the author.