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With his hands down his pants, keeping ‘em warm,
Black trackie in his socks like a uniform,
Mooching round town looking ten men with his clones,
Listening to gangster shite on moody mobile phones.

“Alright ar kid you ‘avin’ it?” He’s got the shameless patter,
Just waiting for the dibble’s lights so he can shout out scatter,
“You’ze buzzin’ yet,” he prattles on, “tonight is fuckin’ mint,”
“The streets are ours, it’s payback time, it’s payday for the skint.”

Another window crashes in; the looters all steam through,
Another jean store ransacked in a fleeting second or two,
Rush it, rush it, deal with it, they’re kicking out the glass,
Then pulling at each other to make sure that they get past.

To make sure their greed gets in the store, there’s nothing they won’t lift,
The carnage quick yet organised, their larceny is swift,
Shouts and screams and whooping prove the sadness in the air,
Detached from our society, they really couldn’t care.

Sirens shriek like rape alarms but pilferers don’t mind,
They’re out to get their hands on anything that they can find,
Little shops are smashed up too; it’s not just the big chains,
Swarms of looting locust swoop, sending business down the drain.

An off-licence on Portland Street has had its guts ripped out,
Its owner standing shell-shocked, too scared to scream or shout,
His family business ruined as the marauding mob moves on,
They just can’t see the savagery in the crimes that they’ve just done.

Shop after shop is ransacked; streets crunch with broken glass,
No rioting Rangers fans are here and there’s been no IRA blast,
An evening of pure madness but we’ve got our own to thank,
Coz every single one of them was probably born a Manc.

Going on and on for hours, no tough tactics are used,
Market, Portland, Oldham Street systematically abused,
Yet the looters don’t look downtrodden, or like they need to eat,
They drip designer branding from their hoodies and their feet.

There’s young girls too among them, they really have no shame,
Posing for the film crews for their five minutes of fame,
There isn’t any argument or statement they want to make,
Not fighting for a movement, they just came here to take.

To cause panic on the streets of Manchester, the looters tore us apart,
But in the weeks that followed we saw true Mancunian heart,
The social sickness of that evening will always probably fester,
But the true people of this town will always heart Manchester.

Copyright©2011 by Phil Martin
All rights reserved.