The Meek shall inherit the Earth (the Stupid are the most Persistent)

The day i went to look for a suit i became very angry, very quickly.  I had been in the town fifteen minutes at a push when i began to look for an entryway or even a f*****g open window to heave my guts out.  They were everywhere. The streak haired sons of council estate thrustings.  The scar faced wife-beating human debris of an Atlantis that sank in excreta.  I was troubled by the gangs of snarling b******s who nudged each other at my bearded approach and barred the footpath. I was sickened by the tracksuited gum-chewing w****s that raised saplings of this glue-bag earth on potato chips and fear. 

Further up along the canal there loomed the Emo's staring into the shopping trolley and piss blackness and comparing cigarette burns or pink and black arm-bands. I dont know what they do, i only suppose i am right. Faux-misery is the most dangerous sort.  When the hammer comes down for real the practitioner is fucked.  The need for a drink overwhelmed me and i found a s**t-smelling bar with a front that appeared to gag through windows at its surroundings.   

Nearly empty save for two old men who had forgotten how to speak, i found a seat at the window to keep an eye on my enemies. Pounding whiskey after whiskey i watched the shell-suits come by to heckle the Emo's and strangely felt no empathy for them.  I was ashamed of myself for a moment.  Too many times i had been the recipient of their malice but i found a hateful chuckle rising and switched to pints.  No sense in heartburn through misplaced gentility. The Emo's hung their heads, took it in their minds a*s and realised My Chemical Romance were not the last word in misery after all.  Daydreams of flame-throwers to settle both groups caused a faint stirring in my stinking jeans.  The suit showed up and floated out of my head again and i wondered what new chapter this s**t-tank world would skip to.

I have no delusions of my own superiority, i am far beneath most.  Its just that i worry about the state of the worlds soul.  We are on one hand falling into a dystopian and violently nightmarish sink-hole populated by night hunting glass-packs and the screaming, bleeding unwary, and a reality tv fuelled, musically devoid banality festival on the cigarette burned other. 

The time will come home for old drunks like me who will not align with either, to run to the mountains where we will slip down only at night,  to build a quiet stronghold of thug skulls and a moat of Emo tears