A.B.C.

We yearn, we yearn for things so huge,
so brown or pink that loom so large above our little faces.
For that sweet, sweet taste of Mother's milk,
with that hint of deodorant and soap.

We jump for joy for Airfix kits, Sindy dolls or Action Man,
rubber balls and spinning tops and little plastic animals.

Those happy, happy times.
Weekends, birthdays, holidays from school.
Paddling in the sea, watching TV, Sunday afternoons at Gran's.
When she discreetly puts 10p in your hand,
to buy ha'penny chews and fishing nets,
ice creams, tip tops and sweet cigarettes.

We yearn, we yearn for girlfriends or boyfriends.
People to give us sloppy kisses and smiles.
That age when various things grow, in a variety of interesting places,
and rather damp dreams, make rather damp stains, and quote a few rather red faces.

We yearn, we yearn for the first time we do,
the one thing we've told everyone we've done.
So we start to buy clothes, begin to dress up, becoming the height of fashion.
Spraying things on, beginning to smell like - pine forests, peach nuts and apple blossom.

But middle age arrives in our middle twenties,
and all we long for is a quite life.
An expensive white wedding, a ride in a Rolls.
Gardening, labradors and crown green bowls.

And now all we need is our slippers.
Our Sunday roast and our cups of tea.
And we satisfy all those - other - needs,
with a monthly dose of pornography.

We yearn, we yearn for a peaceful end, tears on the cheeks of our dearest fiends.
A mahogany box with a golden name plate,
but you died creased and stained, bald and overweight.
You'd hoped to leave your body to medical science,
but the only thing worth using was your surgical appliance.

R.I.P.

© Edward ian Armchair 2002