Pricing youth’s jam

The older you get, 

the more they make you pay 

for the stuff they once

said was the preserve of

your youth.

But what if you lived an 

entire life of drift,

where the good of such youth

just slipped you by?

Then all that remains you

in the ancient of age

and the saddening decay

of baldingly greyed and

pot-bellied revulsion – 

for that is precisely 

the word and awful term which  

women have used of you; have accused of you; 

have disposed of you; have used to finally dispose 

of that everything 

you once were – is to

act in utter consequence with

the consumerisms of your time,

and thus rhyme the youth whose 

jam you never tasted

with the bucks and 

quids of middle-aged

spreads: those cants and

rushes given wholly 

in pushes of

drug-laden pleasures,

ridden with bags and trinkets 

and baubles and fiddles of monies pocketed 

miserable and

cheap.

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