You see them wherever you go,
Crouched upon a Printer Page,
The children of a childish rage,
Who do not know what they ought to know,
Say nothing, save from on a stage,
And cannot themselves admit,

That what they may not say or do,
Is more than likely to be shit,
And the best thing they can get,
Is on the bottom of some shoe
And so they struggle to commit,
Some one or another crime.

Tell me, unrepentant who,
What you�d take if you had time,
And what you�d buy with my last dime,
And who, if not killed, would kill you.

<<agé chose>>

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