Mixin’ Wiv Da Wrong Sort - Street Version Poem by C Richard Miles

I’m sure ’e didn’ evva meanta be a memba of dat crew,
Your bruvva. But it jus’ sorta gotta bit outta han’ an’ grew,
Wot wiv a li’l bitta dis an’ dat, a li’l bitta dealin’,
Nuffink much, jus’ draw an’ stuff, wiv’out a lotta feelin’,
Ya nevva evva really stop ta notice it at first;
Not till, wiv’out warnin’, it suddenly gets worse:
’Oppin’ up an’ down, jumpin’ like a monkey,
Couldn’t be ’im wot’d join up wiv dat junkie.
New lingo on ’is lips, tongue a bit more looser,
Yellin’ at ’is ma, startin’ ta abuse ’er,
Stayin’ out all night, lookin’ a bit less cleaner,
Growin’ dat li’l bitta bumfluff ta look a li’l meaner,
Goin’ out late, comin’ back later;
Shouldn’t ya ’ave guessed den, computed da data?
Givin’ it large, wiv ’is bredren on da manor,
Askin’ who ya lookin’ at? Wearin’ bling fer glamour,
Big man now, not shook fer ’is life,
If 'e woz so 'ard, wot did ’e need wiv dat shank, dat knife?
Keepin’ outta da way, avoidin’ certain endz an’ roads,
Didn’t wanna mix wiv dem wiv differen’ postcodes.
Mixt wiv ’em now, body broken an’ battered,
Mixt wiv ’em now, where their ashes are scattered
In da graveyard. Who’d ’ave evva fought
Dat ’e’d ’ave evva mixt wiv da wrong kinda sort?