Graffiti under a bridge: a cock; kev luvs liz.

Bodies half developed, tufts of pubic hair,

and they need to check if their penis is still there.

 

A fast food job to top up their EMA.

Getting away with as little as they can,

taking the fight, on the streets, to the man.

 

A cap on a head, not worn backwards anymore,

an ASBO sewn violently on a sleeve

the one thing they are proud to achieve.

 

They’re spitting at bus stops again,

too much phlegm, too much phlegm.

 

They once had ambition, aimed for the skies

but now they fall yards from their birthplace;

the world not an oyster, just a blank space.

 

Lives uneventful, creating their dramas

from pixels and mobiles, gossip and tweets.

Cider, lager, Jägermeister and sweets.

 

Without a Father’s stern hand,

without a Mother’s sympathetic embrace,

all they want is encouragement and praise.

 

But they know not how to ask or to show.

Demonised by the media, the government and all,

let’s help them, not kick them when they fall.

 

And were we that much different back then?

Hanging on corners like crows,

an area in town a no-go?

 

What prospect befits our next generation?

Careers disappeared, we now call them NEET.

On the years yet to live they’ll have us beat.

 

Not all of them fall, some soar to the stars,

some join the army, some continue their learning,

some have a passion, the right stimulus, a yearning.

 

But will they be nostalgic for Xbox and quick fucks?

Like we are for the music and our first loves?

There is no solution I can think of...

 

They’re spitting at bus stops again,

too much phlegm, too much phlegm, too much phlegm.