Wealdstone was the hood of Harrow.
Where people lived above shops
and in blocks upon blocks
of apartment buildings,
and where more have just opened up.
Wealdstone was the smudge on Harrow's sterling reputation.
A new stabbing every week,
different drug deals every minute.
The police worked hard with a tireless dedication,
but when we needed them most they got kicked out of their
4 building wide, 2 stories up Police Precinct
to make space for a 3 building wide, 2 stories up apartment
and a Poundland.
They were relegated to a forgotten spot across from the post office.
Wealdstone was the grease spot on the white rug that was Harrow.
People murdered every month,
I've grown used to the sirens.
I ask the Government "what you going to do?"
but I've grown used to the silence
Gang wars every minute
I've grown used to the violence
And the smell of weed on the streets
As I revise for my GCSEs.
Wealdstone was piss yellow on pristine white snow.
A meet on the street
Clasped hands, exchanged goods
the police are around
but they're up to no good
continue in their trade
Blow smoke into their face.
No one knows their names.
They hang out, outside the library,
but none of them can speak properly
It's all "peng ting" this and "fam" that
And "cuz" the other.
Wealdstone was a ghetto in a suburbia
Bars and pubs line the streets,
casinos and betting houses too.
A drunk man is easy to come by
even on the way to school.
When it's dark I find myself looking at every dark alley,
every place where a murderer lurks
I watch the shadows behind me
And use every observational skills I've got.
Wealdstone was a blood stain on a white shirt.
I see flowers on the street,
I don't even stop to think about it.
A poster with his face
plastered so that I'll know about it.
In red lettering,
red like the blood that flowed around him
it's written clear as day
I've never seen his face
but I know that he was