poem i wrote on the train back to london heading for oz. For ollies daddy, Nick. x

The miss representation of a stereotype,

presuming the worst of the one who says 'like'.

An illness of sorts of a young generation,

confused by their verbs and illiteration.

"but, like, it isn't our fault" cry the simpering tots,

"we, like, learned it from rappers and dudes on the box".

As annoying to some as the noisiest eaters,

the giggly gigglers or the hair twirling twiddlers.

The blue collared boys who made it to Stowe,

to Oxford and Cambridge and Eaton they go,

to study their Shakespeare, Austin and Keats,

such vernacular variety they will never repeat.

Then the poor little buggers with bad education,

who stumble upon words that become revelations.

They pour over books and with gusto they write,

but still can't seem to shake that irreverent 'like'.