Dead Leg

You have grown up.
Smoke-stack shadows in your eyes.
And with annual courtroom ties,
Cigarette burns in your clothes,
Sugar spoons and frozen toes.
And as for love;

Oh God, you farce.
Taught and brought up on your verse.
Breaking rank deserves a curse.

Go home now son.
I've forbidden what you love.
Break your own glass with your glove.

So you make blue the air.
And with hands, in pockets, clenched;
Swear to brutalise his wench,
Burn some holes into his floor,
Maybe petrol bomb his door.
Maybe not.
Maybe not.

'Cause that's youth today;
They will fall on anyone in the name of having fun
Or is it pressure from you peers?
As the cries fall on deaf ears.
What have I done?
What have I done?