Anthem for Spent Up Youth (a Parody of Wilfred Owen)

What passing bells for these who shop as cattle? 
Only the monstrous greed of the tills. 
Only the stuttering debit card’s rapid rattle 
Can measure out their hasty purchases.
No mockeries now for them; no refunds just bills; 
Nor any voice of mourning save the drills, –
The shrill, demented drills of ailing trams; 
And beggars calling them to big issues.
What buses may be caught to speed them all? 
Not in the day tickets of tourists but in their eyes 
Shall shine the pricey glimmers of goodbyes. 
The orange of girls' brows shall be their pall; 
Their holidays the wantonness of retail signs, 
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds