The Baby Boomers of Paradise
Those were the days my friend, how blessed we were
Although, in past quandam days, knew it not.
Home to us was warm and dry, sound and safe.
Not called on to fight, we had years to play,
Free of conscripted combat ~ with time to kill;
Time to learn, time to listen, time to speak.
Clothes were brightly colourful and charming,
Hair long and flowing ~ blowin' in the wind.
Money no object ~ or so it would seem.
The world appeared to be as a fairground,
A hall of mirrors in which to reflect;
The tunnel of love was always with us.
We played our music and we rocked-'n'-rolled
Our hearts evoked by transistors not sense;
Twisting the night away, far away, lost.
We thought those days, my friend, would never end,
Timeless days of golden spring and summer.
There were no clouds to keep secret the skies.
Yet time moves on and takes its undue toll.
Some of us are carried off with the tide,
Others remain stranded on the surf's shore.
"How lucky to be here!" I often muse
For now I know a generation raised
Was never conceived to grow up at all.
Copyright © Alan Jeeves | Year Posted 2022
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