Untitled
by Beth Logan
"Maybe at a disco they'd stop
To groove to a nice bit of pop
They might share a leggie
And funk to some reggae
Or reach us the Martian hip hop
They may try on some frocks
And even put on shoes and socks
Munch brown eggless pasta
Ear soya like the rasta
And grow their hair into locks
Would the Martian kids start to sob
When they found they could not earn a bob
"What work here, NO WAY"
But have a nice day
MacDonalds can't give you a job
Immigration would catch up with them soon
And we'd be hearing their same 'red rape' tune
They officials would say
You must leave here Friday
You must return the moon
If people had treated them mean
In most of the palaces they'd been
On Mr. Zephaniah's sofa
Because he likes everything green"
