Chav Town

In the hairstyle-disaster stakes,
the dressing-in-the-dark derbies,
the Arsehole of the Universe in Bloom Awards,
we win hands down here.

In the race to have their firstborn look
like a tart or a mugger, our parents
have shaved years off any other town:
our primary schools proclaim our precedence.

Pre-teen slags swap insults with their swains
each day in the High Street under the
indulgent gaze of their teenage mothers
(the teenage fathers being otherwise detained).

Mini-generations meet in supermarket aisles,
obstructing commerce with their numbers,
doting on half-siblings squabbling over
whose father is whose.

Four generations by fifty is the norm:
babies bouncing in the trollies playing
with the coke and chips and burgers
while they wean themselves on Weetos.

Unburdened by jobs or tax or
responsibilities, they are the
Happy Generations happily leading us
to our next level of civilization.