by Jem Tovey
They slouch around with blood-shot eyes from smoking too much chronic,
If it wasn’t for that Red Bull they’d all be catatonic.
When they’ve finished with the empties, they can’t be bothered to bin ‘em,
That’s the problem with energy drinks – there’s not enough energy in ‘em.
The girls get their own flats by becoming teenage mothers,
The boys are busy “repping their hoods” and stabbing each other.
When I was their age I did bob-a-job week,
I couldn’t care less if my look was “on fleek”.
Never mind “hug a hoodie”, bring back national service,
That’ll stop ‘em hanging round, making decent folk nervous.
Their music’s too loud, it’s all beats per minute,
And their sentences invariably end with “innit”?
Then I remember Stephen Sutton raising millions for charity,
And brave Malala’s fight for educational parity.
Ignore the tabloid outrage about generational blight,
As Roger Daltry once sang – The Kids Are Alright!