Youth
in all its glory
running down
lamplit streets
in eery twilight
laughing gaudy
at old untruth.
They don’t get us
They don’t care
so grapple do we
with ancient fight
timed to three
bomb beats.
Can the fuss
and try not to drown
in stuffy expectations.
What is there
but consigned nations
and tradition bored
of brown tea stains?
What remains
is left to be cured
by inglorious youth.