The Golden Years

“Truth”
Pours from the pen of one vain columnist
The words that you write
Cut like a knife
Everyone believes you
You think that they do

Youth
Seeps from the seams of your festering soul
Mostly just dripping
Influence slipping
Slipping
Slipping

And if only you knew
If only you had the wisdom
In the moment to ask
If only you had the shoes in which to dance
To take a chance to free yourself
Enough to hear the story
Of us millennials,
Generation idle
I-D-L-E
not I-D-O-L

Scorn
Resides in the core of your trivial mind
Consternating dudgeon
Caustic curmudgeon
Clinging to the past
With weak hope it will last
Mostly just drooling
Barely fooling
Yourself

And there will be times, there will be times
Of feeble fragility
Abject senility
Proof the words that you say
Make no sense anyway
There was a young man called Dorian Gray
He clung to his youth
While his magical portrait decayed

Year after year the trends come and go,
Possessing the collective like Pokemon Go
But if only we knew
If only we could see the light
If only we could watch you try to write
The articles you long to write
And right the wrongs you thought you might
Condescendingly telling us
Simultaneously repelling us
From your middle-aged view
Of Generation You
With nothing to lose
But power

You grow old
You grow scared
You reveal only that you’re unprepared

And while the shadow may lie
Between ideas and facts
You can lyrically wax
Grind away with an axe
Try to slander this age
In half-baked attacks
We’re living in a
Modern millennium
These formative years
Are taken for granted,
Old age supplanted,
An idea of reality
Based upon malarky
Not one ounce of evidence
But elderly arrogance
To assume adolescence
Has no thought of providence
Pure narcissism
And no altruism
Only selfies and memes
And faces on magazines

And still you insist
On this frivolous topic
Offering discourse
That’s entirely myopic
We know what Joel Stein
Would say about that
Battling against Time
To meet a deadline
“Me Me Me,” he cries
To anyone who’ll hear
The irrational fears
This constant fixation
On a new generation

It’s easy to judge
From your own citadel
Showing only contempt
For us ne-er-do-wells
Such a feeble attempt
You preach to the choir
Of how we’re entitled
No remorse whatsoever
For how you have libeled
And underestimated us
For this requital.

But for all you Boomers
Who seem to forget
While your rancor you whet
As unchanging assumers:
This new world you’ve hated
Is one you’ve created
Forced us into submission
Of your towering ambition
Built from wars and aggression
Economic recession
We live in a nation
Seized by fear of the strange
The 9/11 generation
An age of estrange
Resistant to change
And damn what’s different

[With respect to Tim Minchin for the structure of this poem]

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