A poem for the rioters...

                                   What had I to plead
  When death stood o'er me with his threatening lance,
When reason left me in the time of need,
  And sense was lost in terror or in trance?
                                             (Christopher Smart)

"The worms of Youth"

To the topless, & the enraged who are high! toYou kicked down,
                I concede the worms,

 vomit in yr smile, a shirt & ascot opening on true slim-waistedness
  (the odd over-45 crookback, too)

               Whether you text or crew in the streets,
  the worms, worms! Give it bad as anything old school and his royal
historian have got—

               Don't ask, "What had I to plead?"

  Interface between mouth and a crying boy's sleeve still sticks!

Invariably wrong to say it til after dark: which is a knock 'gainst blacks
  & flashing! and the young!

  Way it's been & things that never change

  Walking holding beers by the neck (for example) won't change, too
nor tattoos nor red-faced marxists:

                      ectasy captured by the gestapo who don't get
pissed off anymore but live to write the story

                       (who do it running!)