Urban Prophet

By Donna Jones


Have i got cunt tattooed on my forehead?

Mug on my curling breath?

Don’t dis me cos i is 55.

Don’t miss me, replace me, erase me or displace me

Cos i ain’t finished yet!


No Mr Minister, my mind’s intact;

A jewel in fact.

No silver surfing for me.

I’m riding it rough and tough;

Gorging the tunnel;

The crest of a wave so high, i’ll stroke the sun.


No Mr Minister, i ain’t done.

My womb’s dried up;

My ovaries a dot on a world that’s mine

To climb, crag, ride, and pole dance.

I’ll spit it, smack it and rap it.


Mr Minister, or summat more sinister;

If ya can’t knock me up,

Just lock me up.

Cho’, i know the tricks, the licks, the lies,

Your blood shot eyes, turned upside down;

The devil in disguise.

I ain’t no pussy blood clot, butter sket, or mucka.

I’ll wear my jeans low,

Fight for the yoof;

Not fear them or jeer them.

No divide and rule;

urban power ain’t turned sour.

Their hour is rushing to come.

Not in rip roaring riots or

celebrity dreams;  a drain of the brain.


I ain’t got no beef with the one thief that stole a book of poetry.

The dreamer, the schemer of words.

No Mr. Minister, don’t blank him, skank him, or shank him in the back.

An Urban Poet with sounds of flame, scorches the bland;

The hand that bites; the Eton bully boy.

Bullet words break through the fog of skunk – 24/7;

No crack house heaven, credit card dole.

Street soljas don’t sell your soul to the squealers, the dealers

Who rise and become moles in disguise.

Open your fears, your diamond studded ears to the Urban Poet;

Today’s solja Prophet.