Friday, 10 September 2010


The semi formed lad
I passed this morning
Leant over his shoulder
And yelled to a shape in the distance
That he’d burnt his head out.

Now I wasn’t too sure what he was yawping about
But I guessed he’d been wheezing away
On illegal seeds,
And by the look of his ubiquitous
Crumpled track suit
It was probably true.

And I don’t want to disapprove
Of another’s lifestyle,
Or how he whiles away his workless days,
But surely there must be something
Better for today’s youth to do.

There has to be a path
For them to follow that doesn’t involve wallowing
In narcotic dead ends,
With necrotic comrades,
Who as such are more akin
To swindlers than friends.

And I don’t want to sound
As though I’m out touch,
Being partial to a pinch of snuff now and again,
But these young men have no centres
When they venture from themselves.

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