Words wobbling from forefather jowels,
All alpha-males, of course,
Sit on necks that crane not to drown
Before geriatric winks to shorter-lived, simpler things
Measure them by strength and looks, by the salary and the inch.
A knock at the door, calling on responsibility
Beyond TV sports and drink. The persecution
for criticising action movies and not listening to
Rap, hip-hop, rock (but-not-too-soft), screamo or at all.
Almost touching four bedroom walls
with outstretched fingers and toes.
Quiet corners hiding siemen stained rags
Alongside laptops slammed shut to
Hide that we are beaten but still proud.
The single, old men that are left
Of a generation without war
Or the chance of getting lost,
From nothing comes nothing,
And that is what we are.
