Mixing With The Wrong Sort - Original Version Poem by C Richard Miles

I’m sure he didn’t ever mean to be a member of that gang,
Your brother. But it just sort of got a bit out of hand
What with a little bit of this and that, a little bit of dealing
Nothing much, just weed and stuff, without much feeling.
You never ever really stopped to notice it at first;
Not till, without warning, it suddenly got worse:
Hopping up and down, jumping like a monkey,
It couldn’t be him who would join up with that junkie.
Growing that little bit of beard to look a little meaner,
Staying out later, looking a bit less cleaner,
New language on his lips, tongue a bit looser,
Yelling at his mum, starting to abuse her,
Going out late, coming back later;
Shouldn’t you have guessed then, computed the data?
Giving it large with his new mates on the manor,
Asking, “what you looking at? ” Wearing bling for glamour,
Big man now, not scared for his life,
If that were the case, what did he need with a knife?
Keeping out of the way, avoiding certain roads,
Didn’t want to mix with them with different postcodes.
He’s mixed with them now, body broken and battered,
He’s mixed with ’them now, where their ashes are scattered
In the graveyard. Who’d have ever thought
That he’d have ever mixed with the wrong kind of sort?