A Gil in the docks
As always the flock
Becomes a stampede of mindless
Youthism
Like old newspapers
I think of words
Like unequivocal
Or enterprise
And find the omission
Of interest
Constant and timid
Like paper bins
Or rootball images of day and night

Someday the seances of youth will fade away
Like films full of hatred and lives full of war
Or seething castes of poor old folk
Wishing deaths hymn sing aghast them and benign