The men with no trousers

Downtrodden men.

Les Miserables.

Almost in physical pain, I want to cry out to the heavens above. 

We are men, but we do not wear the trousers.

It's hot and much time has passed.

We are lost.

We are thinking of revolting against the system, and casting away these shackles.

You can see it in our eyes. 

But we never will. 

We are all wimps. 

We are cowards with no backbone.

Although the minority, us men communicate telepathically to each other. 

We exchange looks of despair as we pass each other.

Words unspoken, our body language speaks volumes.

Broken men.

Downtrodden.

Hopeless.

Like obedient dogs following their master, we follow our girlfriends and wives to our inevitable, heartbreaking destiny. 

A queue so long, I want to fall to my knees and rip apart my outer garments and let out a war cry.

Curse you, Arthur Ryan.

Curse you and your Primark store.

Joshua, TCC