Skinheads scared me,
old stupidities,
their immediate uniforms;
bared arms, Fred Perrys,

with high-rolled jeans,
over Doc Marten kicks,
and the sneered attitude,
in ska-scored gigs.

But those skinhead girls,
I briefly adored,
their androgynous looks,
which I hooked, engorged.

But the depths of clans,
shorn, or long-haired,
all sunk in belief,
of such no one cares,

unless you are stuck,
in a false uniform,
that of thump-dressed,
or of us, the warned.