Sons

You can remember the past, perhaps not quite so clear, but you do remember, don’t you, you do remember overheard conversations:

They’ve no right being here
Bloody students
Who do they think they are
They’re not like me
Me
I’m an ordinary lad
But I’ve got a language of my own
I’ve got my own identity
For sure it’s true
Some of me mates have shaved their heads
A sort of socially implied tribal-bonding...


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