Gangstas with British Accents
Jessica Bechtold
After I attended a musical
in Piccadilly Circus,
walking beneath the Time Square style lights,
I got a glimpse of home:
three guys wearing Roca Wear
strutting instead of walking
one stride long, one short,
one stride long, one short,
pulling on the crotch of their pants
as if their dicks would fall off
if they let go.
Their hats were on crooked,
sideways and forwards,
Compton style,
like they couldn’t decide from which direction
the giant Coca Cola sign was glowing.
Their standard oversized,
down to their knees, white t-shirts,
baggy pants and Timberlands screamed,
“I’m from the LBC”
or Compton or L.A.
But when they spoke of
“rollin’ out that night”
they sounded nothing like Snoop Dogg
but rather like Hugh Grant,
speaking with the accent of The Queen Mum.
I kept waiting,
wondering no longer if they’d ask me
“what up girl?”
but instead if they were going
to turn around and ask me if
I wanted some tea and crumpets.
I was again, very far from home.