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!

Rant over.

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