Clubbers

Here, wrenched from sleep's full-quiet cradling arms,
I hear the songs of drunken homebound clubbers,
who, raucous as a gang of car alarms,
insult the dawn with thongs, discarded rubbers.
I watch as two in turn proceed to puke
against the tree that grows outside my window.
Will nature offer them some stern rebuke?
Hungover heads perhaps - it's not a sin though.
I wish that we could capture youth again,
be young enough to dance till dawn, unfettered.
Cantankerous age makes me take up my pen
to rail against illiterate youth, unlettered.
         It's not with the cicadas' rasping rattle,
         but with the bloody clubbers I'll do battle.