Jeunesse dorée

strut the streets at the end of this
century, their cleavages all powdered
and their lips all rouged, and the
men in sneakers swaying singing
football songs are clannish in their
maleness, the bars are full of dross
and there is no circumspection on the
streets of our towns where the
youth, the prize of our race, the
generation of the New Millennium
strut the gutter and catcall as
blood is spilt with bottled beer and
obscenity fouls the air.  Is it to
this we have come - all our intelligence
and knowledge reduced to an ancient
animal life that still wields a
stave and a piece of charcoal from the
fire crisps the curve of a bison
on the wall of the cave?  We
grunt in the firelight, and wave.

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