The Old Gits

There they sit, flat caps pushed back,
Woodbine and pint in hand
They set the world to rights,
Eye up the young women,
Complain about youth today,
It wasn’t like that in their day.
I’m sure, if they saw me
They’d class me as young
And grumble about me too,
Though I wait my turn in queues,
I don’t barge in with sticks
Or handbags waving,
And I’d probably agree
With their complaints of youth.
I’m sure when they were young
(Were they ever young?)
Old guys looked at them and
Shook their heads and muttered.
You become your own granddad
And tut tut in your turn
At the liberties they take these days,
You wouldn’t have dared try to take.
Was it really so good
In your day as you’re so fond of saying?
Or is it simple envy
At freedoms never had?
I suppose, should I live that long
I’ll be just the same:
I’m already starting to think that way,
Have already come to believe that old phrase
So simple, so true:
Youth is wasted on the young.



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