The bow-tie of the floppy-haired young man
has come undone. He wanders down the street
confused and lost. Somehow still on his feet
though they wrap round each other. He began

to sing some yards away, now stops to spew,
still retching sings again. No words, no tune.
He will fall on his face, sleep where he lies, quite soon.
And this is what they came to town to do.

He and his friends, to drink, smash glass, and shout
shout us awake as if they own the night.
Their smooth young faces shining with the right
to rule, and ruin lives. They’d sulk and pout

if they knew just how much we hate them all
can’t wait to stick them up against a wall


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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