Oh the poor offspring,
With all the vitality of ichor in their
Veins but none of the reins
To enable them to steer it a clear course.
Crippled by doubt
As they are without sufficient social hold
To know how to respond to
The simplest rings life sets for jumping thru.
Slipped of restraints
Or indifferent triffids spitting out spores
And barely moving at all to do it;
Blinded by the lights whilst being hit.
Few words learned;
Nothing remotely resembling poetry
To say; barely a note above
Shopping lists passed between hands.
Swelled by a wealth
Of information and intelligent enough
To use it to achieve ends,
But unsure what to do with them once met.
Either mannered and
Tanned; educated along standard lines
And helped at home by
The strongest shoulders available to cry on
Or the errant, who do not
Have parents, or whose prove poor and
Appalling when there, and
Useless when not, unable to make it on time.