TIME CALLED ON MY TOWN.

It’s a nice place to live
But I wouldn’t want to visit
As more residents receive
Than return its benefits,
And a working class career
Has no apprenticeship to practice,
And professionals are rarer
Than the few remaining factories.

There’s a trail of seed on every seat,
Arranged with some abandon,
Unknown perfume around to greet
Whomever it can land on.
A folded chair under an arm
In case some should survive;
A panic switch to an alarm
To use if more arrive.

Older than its yesterdays,
But younger than tomorrows,
Slower than its credit pays,
But quick enough to borrow;
Moving from its latest space
Towards where it must be,
Increasingly behind the race,
But still ahead of me.

Who’s not half as cut as I could be,
But twice as cut as I was,
And the things I am not I should be,
But I’m unable to rally my cause,
For when I split my head open
I crawl to the A&E
Who give me a needle and cotton
As it’s not an emergency.

So check the direction
From whence those shots came,
And be grateful the factions
Are well off their aim,
For the weather is clear
And will be for some time,
And the distance appears
To be less than unkind,

And it wouldn’t be all that hard to explain
How fortunate we are,
And how much fortune in the end
We’ll understand,
For the full stop will be something,
And tending our machine;
More than can be crammed in,
And spun around till clean.

The roof has remained firm,
And the interior the same,
Only the occupants therein
Have changed;
In your seat before you sit,
On your bed before you lie,
In your clothes before you fit
And your grave before you die.