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