Ages Rush By, Unremarked By Anyone
What shall we do today, my dear, where would you like to go?
It's June the Twelfth - eleven years! We've reached a new plateau!
Yet some might claim
If they've a mind
To take the blame
The seal unsigned
That rather than fly by, I fear, the time has gone quite slow
Who would have thought today, my dear, we'd still be man and wife
Let's reckon up: eleven spawn? We've led a fecund life
Yet some might say
So many young
Have hell to pay
And should be hung
Perhaps we should slit their throats this year, or banish them to Fife
What shall become of us, my dear, if fire engulfs our shack
We'll emigrate - eleven miles - without once looking back
Yet some might shout
From distant towers
"Get out, get out
Your ways aren't ours!"
Why, then, we'll spit into their beer to fend off an attack
| Contributors: | . |
| Poem finished: | 17th June 2004 by Roland. |