ESCAPING THE WORM RACE.

Those kids who once chased you with worms
Need no longer be your concern
For they’re stuck in a world of their own
As their day jobs were all they could learn.

And their features are all uniform,
Like the houses their monies have earned,
All garnished with little kid clones,
And furniture recently turned.

They smoke when they drink which they do all day long
Whilst inspecting the state of their phones,
Which they constantly tap till their fingers are worn
And unable to pick up a tone.

And last orders are due, but disorder begun,
As they go twelve more rounds on their own,
Then swallow a curry, whose name has been sworn,
And return to their discomfort zones.

Where the Lord’s Day of rest is resented away
Whilst respect is reserved for their waste;
Their poor souls are fat whilst the rich ones have made
To the outskirts because there’s more space,

Which is quickly becoming an action replay
Of the previous gardens they graced,
Though the people who’ve run here are still less afraid,
For the invertebrates, at least, have more taste.