View from the Boxroom

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i see the next generation
in pebble dash and tarmac splendour;
nothing down, no dope, no hope.
single mothers raising seven; no Snow White
she does the best she can in between cans and pills and testosterone thrills.
the retired railway worker, thrown to the sidings,
tends his lawn.... more often than his lady.
another car pimped to the max on handouts and shed raids,
the bollocks box louder than the rap crap on the boom box, innit
homie, you look so cool, sound so bad but this aint the fuckin' Bronx!
mini psyche apartment blocks - its all scare in the community.
twitches behind nylon net curtains, 4 for a pound to alleviate the paranoia
unleashed and ready to bring charges to an unsuspecting neighbour.
1960's rubble filled dens of resignation or iniquity;
they dont build 'em like that anymore!
they dont raise 'em like that anymore!
and despite, diss - spite, the fake gold and hoop earings
portray an air of family bonds and superiority
unfounded.
how to end?
just dont knock on my door. i'm in the boxroom and i'm not taking visitors.