Youth passes in ruckus,
In the pursuit of perfection,
Of kicking beer cans through sleepy streets
In a way that it indents
The membranes of an elderly brain the most,
So that it jerks up from fatigue
And sinks into slick envy.
Many an old men must sleep with content,
Finding their sons
Bald and spread
Yet distinguished to a young friend,
Always keeping eyes above her neck.
If the wise still could...instead they watch what has long left...