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Poetry
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| Our Generation | |
| By chrismorton | ||||||||||
| 06 July 2008 | ||||||||||
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An old poem of mine. Bit of fun. Something different to my extended work chapters. When they wake up in the morning And stare through faded tears They take turns in the bathroom And count away the years They are silent over breakfast ‘Cause it’s all been said before They may chat over coffee Let the TV chat some more You know it’s all the same to him And it’s all the same to her And now the birds are singing He sneaks a fag at bedtime They grow their pleasure in the garden She’s seen escaping with some wine And her friends over the phone-line And his life is on the stairs Grow their pleasure in the garden And count away the years And the pictures on the wall Remind him of the old times And the entries in her diary Remind her of his better lines
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