Who you gonna call?                                                                                                                                                 Chav-busters!                                                                                                                                                         I aint afraid of no chavs.

Pot sized bellies spill down to nike trainers,                                        I flushed my chain down a drain; it had started to rust.                           Chavs never seem to know, when their trousers are far too low,                       this fashion trend has crashed into a dead end.                                     That bling is outdated and so overrated.                                             The chav takes a crack, but will it snap back?

Boom! Bang! Boom! Bang! There goes that slang slang!                                 What’s that, mate? Could you repeat?                                                 I don’t understand you when you’re talking so street.                               Your words are like poison; they chill my blood.                                     You’re dragging English through the mud.                                             They drip drop out of your mouth, as the words slowly ooze south.

Innit, that chick is bare sick.  She aint butters.                                   She aint toy.  Oh skeeeeeeeeeen, she’s a boy.  Her legs are like trees.             Wait….what the……? English please.

Be careful, blad.  I beg don’t trip.                                                 You might just break a hip.                                                         Be careful, blad.  I beg don’t smoke.                                               You might just choke.  You are a fucking joke.                                       Be careful, blad.  I beg don’t shoot.                                               I might have to extinguish your zoot.                                               Be careful, blad.  Don’t wear a backwards hat.                                       Or you’ll be asking, do you want chips with that?                                   Be careful, blad.  I beg don’t cuss.                                                 I might have to bust a cap in yo ass.                                               Be careful blad, I beg just trust.                                                   Looks like I have some motherfucking chavs to bust.

Stomp! Stamp! Ugg wants his boots.
Clomp! Clamp! Ugg wants to shoot.
Thwomp! Thwamp! Ugg wants to loot.
Stomp! Stamp! Ugg don’t eat no fruit.
Clomp! Clamp! Ugg is lower than a root.
Thwomp! Thwamp! Ugg is a brute.

*author’s notes*

This was a poem I wrote for my writer’s group, when we were exploring whether or not to use rhyme in poetry or not.  This is the rhyming version of the poem. There is a lot of British slang in this poem, so please ask for translations.

I wrote this poem based on my friends’ comments that they’ll be starting up a chav-busting agency.  I wasn’t going for any specific rhyme scheme within this.   I’d like some feedback on the last stanza and whether the whole “stomp stamp, thwomp thwamp, clomp clamp” thing is effective, or should I change it to a repetition of “stomp stamp.”

Chav-Busters Non-rhyming Version

Who you gonna call?
Chav-busters!
I aint afraid of no chavs.

Pot sized bellies spill down to nike trainers.
You look really cool with your trousers around your ankles.
If I pull down on his cap, will it snap back,
that fashion trend is so last year.
I sent some bling to cash4gold; they sent it back.
Who’s the father? Only the DNA test will tell.

Have you heard of a gym?
No, not your homie Jim who lives in 4A.
A gym is the place, where you can wear your nike, umbro, puma.
Let me tell you mate, you don’t look badass,
wearing your adidas
on a council estate.

I’ve got my chav to English dictionary.
My water cannons locked and loaded with industrial strength make-up remover.
A belt.
Some Cash to ease their Tinie Tempahs,
or maybe we’ll all take a trip to Denver.
I could hire a good Cooke and we won’t have to go to Mcdonalds.

Don’t you just hate it when a chav is talking to you and you have absolutely no idea what they’re saying?
Al Capone and Bonnie and Clyde were the real gangsters, remember?

Stomp! Stamp! Ugg wants his boots.
Stomp! Stamp! Ugg wants to loot.
Stomp! Stamp! Ugg is a brute.
Stomp! Stamp! Ugg wants his boots.
Stomp! Stamp! Ugg wants to loot.
Stomp! Stamp! Ugg is a brute.

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