The height of bad boy expression,

fifteen years old and hanging

on the corner, holding your mate’s fag

in one unseen shaking hand

whilst casually sipping

on a can of cheap, devilishly sick

beer, brought from the off licence

as he looked over your shoulder

at every car that went past in case

it was an off duty policeman

ready to nail his arse to the ground

for supplying you with the means of courage

to talk to the girl who was flavour

of the month in your diary,