Snow around their boots, they gather
Like and embodiment of the weather:
Huddled there, herded like cattle.
They are animals dressed for battle.
One smokes, another sprawls,
Three of them sloganise the walls
They look askance at Princes Street
Defiantly in their defeat:
Their breaths clouds in the cold.
These young boys, horribly old,
Having nothing (heads shorn of hair).
The do nothing, pollute the air
With verbal debris, have nothing to declare.
They look ahead and blankly stare:
Their eyes are onions of despair.