The Curmudgeon

YOU'LL COME FOR THE CURSES. YOU'LL STAY FOR THE MUDGEONRY.

Tuesday, March 08, 2011

The Wheels of Time

We mourn for the tyres on the cars of our fathers;
We tear up our clothes in a Biblical strop;
We work ourselves into Victorian lathers,
As the wheels of our childhood go clunk to a stop.

We cannot return with the squeak of an axle;
We cannot ungrind from the teeth of time's cog.
As we wait in their path, so the world's brutal facts'll
Run over us like a truck squashing a frog.

Alas for the castors that wobbled so seemly!
Alas for the wheels of our hastening youth!
Alas for all rollers that rumbled so dreamly!
They've buggered off now; that's the God's honest truth.

Bollop Grudsell

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