He kicks the ball, runs around with his friends
He gets knocked down, roughed up, and then gets up again.
They games they change and the numbers add,
But the kids stay intact through the changing times.
He gets to the point where he is chained by fear,
Afraid that his 'friends' might call him a queer,
Bound by the trends and the mindless fads,
And his fading spirit is a growing sign.
And he wasted his time getting wasted his time getting wasted his time getting wasted.
And he used all his time getting used all his time getting used all his time getting used.
And he wasted his time getting wasted,
And he used all his time getting used.
And now he sits there wondering
What happened to his youth.
It's a shame, swallowed up by these games he 'had' to play,
Refusing to break away from this life of dismay.
Spat out by the friends he'd never doubt
Because without them, well cannot march to his own count.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem