Youths, the sight of thy pants menacingly looming over the waistband of your ill fitting trousers doth not fill my heart with joy this fine afternoon.

Nor doth the stench of your rancid marijuana which oozes from your pores and combines with your ever present lynx masked body odour.

I see you stroll with all the grace of a strategically shaved ape,
as you migrate with your "Fam" to linger like wastrels outside the Spar in the hope of cheap cider, stolen smokes and easy girls...
And I wonder at the devoid nature of our future while it rests on your rounded, work shy, knuckle dragging shoulders.
I fear the brush thats tars us all.