Such sobriety in the court where these kids played ball.
It’s impossible to hear any gratifying bugle call
or those subtle syncopated symphonies.
Am I one to proclaim youth as phony?
Look. Monotones can never be swank tunes,
they are merely unrefined masterpieces of loons.
Clad in black with anarchic unison, boorish teens gather
among this white noise, and yet they eventually scatter.
Perhaps they are a tad more than bogus – doomed?
Their joy has haltingly curtailed to gloom,
their emotions gradually dying like cattle.
Inner beauty is no longer even worth a rattle.