Old Poetry Purloined

 In early 20th time

Poet Eliot wrote a line:

I grow old; I grow old;

I shall wear my trousers rolled.

 

Then what got rolled

was a 20th century that's now been told.

 

In mid 20th time

Poet Simon wrote a a line:

 

Old friends, old friends

sit on their park bench like bookends.

 

Then a newspaper blown through the grass

disappears in a MetNet morasse.

 

We burned through an Age of Oil

carbon propelling our industrial toil:

makes the Indy 500 look like the Roman chariot races.

Forests and fauna ascend in carboniferous traces. 

Suddenly it’s nine o’clock on a Saturday;

and Billy’s got us feeling allright, in a way.

 

It’s Sad and its Sweet and I knew it complete, 

when I wore a younger man’s clothes.

 

But I grow old, I still grow old.

Now I’ve watched this life unfold.

I feel old, but I grow bold.

Now I see what I was told

would happen. 

Yep. It happened; it did.

In spite of God forbid

Glass half-Full