Three
skinheads. Fourteen maybe fifteen.
Scrawny
built, intentionally mean
Kicking
a football, not down the street
But
over houses. They were seeking to dominate:
Establish
their pitch where they were kings
Of
fear and intimidation, brutally frank,
In
the innocently obvious way of the young,
Where
all that matters is – who’s boss?
These
were younger. Egg throwers.
Do
you know how much an egg hurts -
Even
when thrown by an eight year old?
Throw
and run is the game.
Intimidation
practice for when you’re older
And
have your own kids to control.
The
posse were our friends.
They
did not throw eggs or kick footballs
Over
our house. More likely to kick them round
Our
garden or bring eggs to practice making cakes.
We
loved them in their tantrums and arguments
Over
who was best friend and who was ex-friend and who was next friend
But
I suppose the game was the same
Who's
friend, who's foe ... who's boss?