All these young-bloods,

Trying so hard to make friends.

Acting like the ace of clubs,

While thoroughly scrutinizing through a punk lens.

Oh, here’s the cool kids.

Thirty years later,

And the dream’s still not real.

Too late now, they become the wanter of thrills.

But ignorance is bliss,

And old age just makes you miss it.

Yet the thought makes you remorse,

Could you have done better with yours?

Don’t bother with a warning.

For their actions they’ll be mourning,

Upon reaching your age of distress.

Go home old man you’re fifty.

 Everyone must reach the stage,

When constant joy ceases,

And  punk lens’ turn into class.

Then the young-bloods will know,

Just what sorta sorrows they constant sow.