your words are a plague- you spread
as you speak
a skinhead tattoo scrawled by friends
matching chicken scratch.
your mohawk undisturbed by an
Angry Bastard thermal.
the epitome of unfledged angst, a
The Clash swells from your speakers
asking should I stay or should I go?
and after all the words you exhorted
like a redeemer to his sycophants —
you left the easy way.