A Social Problem

Surrounded on a stationary train
By paper lamentations big and bold
That Britain's greatness could not come again
Till we regained our pure-white gloss of old,
I saw a headline slither from its place
And stamp the floor with black and hefty rage;
The paper's reader frowned at the white space
And quickly rustled up the sporting page.

The black ink in a wobbly blot arose;
Black words clumped into fists and shiny boots
Which found and fought one of the country's foes,
Who undermine our State with foreign roots.
Shaking his head, the reader turned to me:
"These black chaps are so violent, you see."

Bozzler Frippett