There never was a counter-culture. No punk alive is not a vulture Consuming as carrion revenue From laymen walking the avenue,
Fearing at night to find their car burnt, Their daughter raped, or become unlearnt At the hands and contact of the scum That seeks but dissent, to glum and clum
All who point out their contrarian sloth, That beneath the mighty mask of goth Lie disarrayed lives no different From the counter-model grandparent
Who would sit and sip for days on end With his lazing, lolling, stalling friend And pal, paling away aimlessly, Enjoying themselves as shamelessly
As none shame, soberly so doing, For a man may laze a stop-gap king If he's pulled his weight, his share of work Instead of grumping 'round like a jerk.
Hold: my target is not a hairstyle, A music genre, a dismal aisle; Not a facet of any culture, Not one thing man may proudly nurture
But wrathful hubris in douchey shape, The reasonlessly rebellious ape That learned no trade, never even tried Til his learning brain was fully fried
And all he could do was scowl and rage In utter confusion, for man's age Requires self-imposèd structure, The observing of basic stricture
Which a child should learn, but O, Lord, nay, The toddler, too, has his word to say: Let him grow learning on his lonesome What's worth pursuing and what's loathsome.
The end result? The kid congregates Where not one man rightly conjugates, Where tongue is not novel, as he thinks, But of tribal trials reeks and stinks.
Even when these flops feel like tackling Politics, 'tis but for a tailing Or in order to feel mattersome Not managing muscle medicine
But screaming the scientific facts Verifying would make for few acts They still won't withstand, dead as they are Center in extremistic dead air.
Old wisdom saith: "Son, get thee a job": Therein lies no oppressive lynch mob But the starting point before revolt Can be justified: past nut and bolt.