I cannot say if things are worse Than times that went before For I saw not that bygone world Nor what they did endure
Where once their sight was short, Now it's growing nearer Starter homes where they once held court Go "green" like silver mirrors.
Elixirless were garden hoses Plastic cups, no holy grails held beneath their noses Now all you have left are pictures That time has robbed of hue I study them now, and try to suppose it But the complexion hides no trace of youth: Just spoiled cream and rotting roses A foul-odored truth.
The trade was fair when young were the eyes That fixed upon that crest, their prize Now turned white with cataracts, still they **** it dry And turn to bottles for babes set aside, Begging pity for the old and blind And anyone too far gone to toil. "It shall be hard time," or so they cry, "Served beneath the soil."
I do not know if things are better For I canβt see past the doom As we sign on the line, the place in the ledger For a place in their scrapbook without any room
It's hard time indeed that's served beneath ravaged soil; So tell me:
Can a head that sold my breaths to royals Anoint itself King with motor oil?