E.R. Smith, 2018
Assaulted by youngsters in backpacks.
Backing in to unaccomodating spaces
Parents, glaring staring, shut your yap
Say nothing to my young, I’ll kill your village,
Don’t dare groom mine, they’re not fresh!
Polite is un-relevant, we’re here to pillage
Sharpened elbows at my sides, as you swipe
Focused squeezing, communicating with dark net
Grey heads shake at brute, who continues to type
Transit, precarious microcosm of disdain
Populace on edge, shoving humanity
Bus and Train rumbles as brains drain