Hartlepool: I hate every inch of you!
O you make me feel so alone and blue!
O you are such a boring, backward place!
You're so lacking in refinement and grace:
Filled to the brim with petty, little tribes.
You act glibly as precious flowers die.
Your conception of culture, I fear,
Is rather stone age: just 'birds' and beer.
I'll wave the white flag and admit defeat.
You hold all the cards. You cannot be beat.
Yet the anger and resentment I feel,
Helps fuel all my efforts at poetry.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem