If old is becoming the new black and rags are coming back into style
dial me up a smile.
We’re in the rip off roar of twenty sixteen and seen nothing like it before.
And four and twenty blackbirds are for sure baked in the tart
along with horses, dogs and cats and even the dustman’s cart.
If we are what we eat when our feet miss a beat we’ll go neigh that wasn’t me
then sit down for rats and mice nice things to gobble up for tea.
It’s easy being a pessimist
when you have no faith and the list of things
you can’t do just gets longer.
I’m no longer young or old,
not black or white
or day and night
I’m in the middle
playing the fiddle
and burning the toast.
© 2016, John Smallshaw.