You fall apart as you get older
and half the time you get less bolder.
You cosy up to television
losing track of lost precision.
Used to be you wasted time,
now time wastes you in silly rhyme.
He’s a redundant old age pensioner
though he tweets and common sources,
nursed his wife through her dementia
but he’s by-passed by social forces.
Drove a van for Amazon
and didn’t find that taxing,
but since Kindle helped the books be gone
he’s now about as useful as faxing.
We meet up now at The Hub in The Rec.,
Two refugees from old new tech.
Prufrock measured his life in coffee spoons
-Us, we try to read the runes.
Day centres closing, some folk left unwashed,
that’s not a consummation to be wished.
As long as we are here we shall cause a kerfuffle,
We’ll snuffle and shuffle but the Council won’t muffle
-Us, no. We’ll bend and we’ll mend,
as we trend and we send,
we’ll get in the way of officials who rend.
We’ll be awkward as Hell for as long as we want,
for we’ve been here awhile and we like the jaunt.
We’re not Noam Chomsky nor Elon Musk
but neither of us is an empty husk.
From within and without we can see what is happening
with the scratching sound of political flattening,
yet our music is a rallentando score
for ordinary folk deserve much more.