Lying on our backs in the grass
Baking in black brushed wool overcoats, 
Snatches of torn fishnets 
Peeking out from the rips in our jeans, 
Our modest teenage fortunes 
Mostly wasted on Manic Panic and Army surplus
Sharing the tiny orange foam-festooned 
Headphones jacked into a beat up, off-brand Walkman
While the tinny baritone inside serenades us. 
One against each respective ear, 
As we lay our heads on each other’s shoulder,
We know, without having to be told, that  
It won’t get any better and no amount
Of slamming doors or screaming into pillows 
Will make any bit of difference.  

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