CRS

Down the hill, round the corner

Stop

Be polite

CRS don’t play games here,

They assault and they fight

To them, a child, a victim of war

Is someone to ridicule and push to the floor

They don’t have rules, and they never play fair

As they stand guard at the gates with the sun in their hair

Guns at their waist, tear gas at the ready

Their tempers flare quickly and their trigger fingers aren’t steady

Through the streets of The Jungle, we walk or we drive

The sound, all around, the buzz of a hive

Your people aren’t safe here, you shouldn’t be trapped

In tents that flood daily, in a place that’s unmapped

You keep to the edges, your eyes on the ground

As the CRS plow through you and push you around

They’re bigger, they’re stronger, they’re armed and they’re mean

Rubber bullets shot at children

They don’t care if they’re seen

They know they’re untouchable, that they have the power

That they can go home to a hot meal and a shower

While children sit frightened, huddled alone and wait for the sunrise with cold in their bones.

The children are careful, the adults are too, you don’t want to upset them, you don’t know what to do

To stay out of trouble, you have to blend in

But the CRS don’t play games here

And they don’t trade in fair as they pick someone who’s defied them right out of thin air

They beat him

They mock him

They make sure people see, what will happen to you here if you are refugee

They don’t try to hide it, right there on the sand

Sneers on their faces, their batons in hand

Rules don’t apply here, not the ones that we know

The police aren’t your friends here, they don’t help those in need

They might kick you or punch you, or shoot if you flee

It’s not easy to live here

Scared

And alone

Not enough shelter, hungry for home

You have struggled for months, sometimes years to get here

To this barren sandy wasteland that will never be clear

Of your people seeking refuge from countries of your own

Forced to leave in a hurry, to abandon your home

You know where you’re headed, it’s a well-trodden plan

One you know inside out like the back of your hand

It’s a haven, a sanctuary, someplace safe to settle

Where each day isn’t a test of mettle on mettle

It’s easy to die here

Scared

And alone

Not enough shelter, hungry for home

There’s so many ways, it could happen to you

CRS in the dark

Sometimes one

Sometimes two

Alone on the sand, finally ending your pain

Of days filled with anger, of nights filled with shame

As you struggle to enter the trucks as they drive

Your face just one of The Jungle hive

Your muscles are screaming, your fingers are raw

Everything in your body shouts No! Stop, I’m sore

Does anyone notice?

Does anyone care?

Or are you just a number? A statistic to share?

CRS don’t see body and fall to their knees

They see scum or a mongrel and laugh as you bleed

Stop

Be polite

CRS don’t play games here

They assault and they fight