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?