They've ruined my old street they have,
they've blotted out the view.
No far horizon can be seen,
the place seems smaller too.
The green field where I used to play,
is long-since built upon.
More kids today than ever was,
but space to play has gone.
The hills that once I spied afar,
no longer meet my gaze.
A looming building blocks them out,
the street's seen better days.
They call it progress - that's a laugh!
The neighbourhood's a sight.
Too many years of 'adding on'
have packed it much too tight.
And yet in dreams I see again
the street I knew when young.
In dreams, the dear remembered past
seems near and less far-flung.
So let me sleep and live in dreams,
where things are as before.
And if I could I'd never wake,
and dream forevermore.
It's called progress ..So I'm told
ReplyDeleteYeah, that's what THEY call it - but I call it a crime.
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