Wears rings on his fists like polished bottle tops.
His hair’s cut short – a tramline with no stops.

Smokes enough cigarettes for his stunted growth.
He’s a brace in his mouth and he lights them both.

He fancies the street corner as his own shop front
His footwork is nifty but his vocabulary’s blunt.

With his trackies and his baccy tucked into his socks,
He thinks he’s the man peddling weed and rocks.

If you glance at him twice he’s quick to the fight
He’s of the opinion two wrongs make a right.

Anyone over fifty he’ll push to the ground.
If he’s in for a penny he’s in for a pound.

He’s no respecter of age or beauty or wisdom,
Can’t stand the cliché? Well stay out of the kitchen

With a look that cuts that needs a suture,
I’m afraid to say this kid is the future.