The Lost Boys

The lost boys are stuck at tender of the heart age of twenty-two

The modern day satire reincarnation of the pre-Rapchalite brothers

Who have immortalised their beings at twenty too

Reference themselves without the needed dripping irony, blaming their mistakes on their mothers

As if Wendy herself wasn’t as well a lost girl 

Idolised like a shell’s mother-of-pearl

The lost boys fuck and fight at the same time

“It’s more poetic that way”, they say as they search up their rhymes

You won’t see them in the day, they only come out at the midnight bell chimes

Coming out with their cliched words, speaking recycled thoughts of, “where have you been all my life?”

As if you haven’t been standing right here

Watching fuck and fight themselves, being awfully quite queer 

The lost boys live and breath in their romanticised hedonism 

Debated philosophical arguments revolving around the firmness of Wendy’s tits

Saying aye or nay as you please, let’s cause a schism

“But I love your tits, fuck Wendy, I’ll call it quits”

They apologise writing their songs of woe

Which they then perform on stage, expecting you to dance to them, without irony’s faux 

The lost boys are lost

They believe however shit it is their love is star-crossed

And they are ready to be right at any cost

But only at night when they sleep do they seem soft

But unfortunately/fortunately it’s not enough