Free online greeting card maker or poetry art generator. Create free custom printable greeting cards or art from photos and text online. Use PoetrySoup's free online software to make greeting cards from poems, quotes, or your own words. Generate memes, cards, or poetry art for any occasion; weddings, anniversaries, holidays, etc (See examples here). Make a card to show your loved one how special they are to you. Once you make a card, you can email it, download it, or share it with others on your favorite social network site like Facebook. Also, you can create shareable and downloadable cards from poetry on PoetrySoup. Use our poetry search engine to find the perfect poem, and then click the camera icon to create the card or art.
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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required WORSE THAN DOGS Mi step off di docks, salt burn in mi chest, Suit sharp-press, hope pin to mi vest. Windrush blood, calypso fire, Dreams of gold — meet cold barbed wire. “Welcome,” dem sneer wid a crooked grin, Door slam shut — all ‘cause a mi skin. Signs in window cut like knives: NO BLACKS. NO DOGS. NO IRISH. — lives. But truth cut deeper, raw, obscene — Even dogs run free while mi stay unseen. Scrubbin’ street in polished shoes, Three shift deep — still bound fi lose. Every glare a wound, each word a blade, Dreams turn dust in di land mi prayed. Culture muffled in council flats, Reggae silenced by police wid bats. Steelpan cry drown in riot smoke, Carnival dreams as di hatred spoke. Notting Hill burnin’, fists in di night, Caribbean heart hold firm in di fight. “Back to yuh island!” di cowards spat, But we build Brixton — and we fight back. Pickney hungry, madda pray, Fadda beaten, future fray. Sirens scream where hope lie dead, Molotov skies rain brown and red. Law twist truth, street betray, Black life hunted, night and day. Dem call mi “savage,” spit “go home,” Yet tek mi labour, skin and bone. Caribbean soul in a British frost, Build dis land — still count as lost. Worse than dogs — mi bear di blame, Judge by shade, not soul, not flame. But still mi rise, unbowed, unbent, Back unbroken, life well-spent. Through cracked brown knuckles, through nights of screams, Mi forge new world from shattered dreams. Roots run deep in London clay, Though hate try hard fi burn dem away. Hear di steelpan — we nah forget. Hear di fire — it burnin’ yet. From Windrush decks to Brixton lanes, Notting Hill flames to blood-red chains. Shout it loud, mek di world nuh sleep: No sin but skin — and di roots run deep.
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