I don’t strut or rant or leap around or pace about the stage,
Expostulate politically with anger and with rage,
Tell you what it’s really like to fight against the odds,
Complain about the posh, the rich and other lucky sods
Who were born with a silver teaspoon protruding from their mouth
Or had the sad misfortune to be born in the stuck-up South.
I’m getting far too old for that
Though once I bawled and bellowed -
I’ve moved on 30 years since then
I’ve softened and I’ve mellowed.
I know now I can’t change the world
For no-one listens, do they?
Besides it takes me half the day
To even change the duvet.
I tell myself my new restraint
Means I’m older and I’m wiser
Though I sometimes write a stiff complaint
To the Beverley Advertiser
About uneven pavements
Or excess doggy-doo
Or hoodies or Poles or pigeons or moles
And the damage they can do!
I get annoyed by gangs of youths,
By the lack of law and order.
I told the Driffield Guardian
And the Bridlington Recorder
But does the council do ‘owt
They bloody well do not
Except send the little bastards
On a cruise upon some yacht!
So while they’re on some jolly
Crossing the Atlantic,
I’m stuck in my flat in my coat and my hat
Going bleeding frantic
Cos the blessed heating’s gone again;
I’ve been freezing for a term here
But nobody out there seems to care
If I get hypothermia!
Now that’s a thing to rant about,
There’s a case there to be made
But no-one wants to listen
To the Zimmer-frame brigade.
Now here’s the truth - an angry youth
Can strut and rant and rave
But no-one wants to hear you moan
As you’re heading for the grave.
I suppose I should just face the truth
Before I have a fit -
This angry young man of yesterday
Has become today’s grumpy old git!