In the old church yard behind the high wall,

Teenagers often gather to hold their own ‘ball’.

Headstones are battered by missiles they smash,

Graves are trampled on and splintered with glass

Leaving behind damage, plus an assortment of litter

And families of ‘loved ones’ feeling angry and bitter.

A playground for yobs, instead of serenity and rest

They feel authorities have failed, when put to the test.

Having no respect, in their lives no vocation,

These young hooligans are the next generation.

Name and address supplied