Squad

The Squad

In the dawn‑touched suburb, we align – a tidy squad,
All see-through caps a‑glint against ‘mako’ night,
We set it out where the town’s old clockwork hums,
And in the bare nod of a neighbour’s word, we’re bound.

Our purpose – a mess, like a cup of bitter brew,
Personal pride and purpose that’s common to all,
One harnessed to the common creed of “just one” cup,
The quiet echoes of dawn; a promise to stand tall.

When the whistle cuts through London's damp purr,
We send out a hail, a shout across the divide;
The rebel heart, the cheeky grin that leaves the crowd,
The roo‑faced tricks that keep us labels and stills.

After the light‑gathering goes, we should let this be:
Each one’s left with a clue of truth, raw and free;
A pride of no one found what we’re doing wrong;
Something that hums like a lazy leaf among trees.