Mr. Youngs...

With my eyes through the glass,
I see Mr. Youngs with their darkened eyes,
My old papa calls them punks,
Though ‘punk’ -- a word he can’t pronounce,
Winter sun’s weak, but still it’s good in cold days,
They feel high with their thorny hairs and loose pants,
Smoke’s immature in their young lips,
Arms around their little girlfriends are innocent and fragile,
I heard!!!
Mr. Sex-Pistols had died a long before,
But how come!!!Their feelings still hover amongst Mr. Youngs…

Milan Gurung (Freeman)