Poem - South Belfast

Children of the education
run amock and their salvation
lies among the Avenue, where
friends will meet, both old and new.

Bars and clubs are rather dear,
and leave me skint each time I'm here;
the artists, they aren't far away
with plenty to sing about or say.

Windsor Park will show a match
which finishes with a punch and scratch
between the players, green and blue,
and children grow up like that too.

Round the corner is the Road;
it runs for miles while carrying the load
of violent outbreaks from before.
The scars inside remain quite sore.

QUB is looking strong; the
children are right, they're not wrong
about the way this area looks;
they do not need anymore crooks.

Not to far away's the Pass,
where Harold's numbered days were last.
A man, he was, in South Belfast
where buildings crumbled with a blast.