We were the flower generation
We thought our parents had got it wrong
We thought when we came to lead the nation
We’d make it sing another song
We’d change the face of society
Into the place it oughta be
With Freedom and Love for you and me
and Peace not War –
What were we fighting for?
Not cool, man!

Now we’re the older generation
Our children think we got it wrong
Our contemporaries lead the nation
But no-one listens to our song
We didn’t change society
It’s a tougher place than it used to be
With muggings, violence and cruelty

There’s wars on wars –

What are they fighting for?
Just greed, friend.

Maybe the present generation
Will get it right where we got it wrong
When it comes to their time to lead the nation
Maybe they’ll teach it a different song
Maybe they’ll change society
To a kinder, fairer place to be
But will there be room for you & me?
Granny, after the War
What was all the fighting for?

I’ve forgotten, child.

Someone has to do something.
Some things have to change
But whose job is it to do it?

It’s so easy
to pass the buck,
blame it on the government,
or those who gamble, dopetake, or bludge.
Who knows
their real circumstances?
And who will help them
if we don’t?

But we worry
over trifles;
and live apart
in our crystal palaces,
separated
from those who live
on the breadline

We sponsor children
 - overseas
while in our country
children suffer.

We criticise
bad parenting,
but do not offer
our assistance

We say we have our own
family to care for,
business to run,
house to look after…

Someone else will do it

Someone else will change it

Sometime

Won’t they?

We take Thought and turn it into words.
We know the power of words.
We take words and play with them,
fight with them,
subdue them,
make them into shapes
they weren’t intended for.

Words are our weapons,
with them we dissect society,
laugh at logic,
defy hypocrisy,
force the world
into the way we want it.

We can hit home
with one well-turned sentence,
a smile,
a rhyme,
or none at all….

We can be rude, or gentle
as the mood takes us.

In ancient days
we were revered,
now we’re sidelined…
strange breed, odd people!
misunderstood…
put them to music, sing them, then we’ll listen..
maligned…
Who buys poetry these days?

But we’re here,
subversive underground,
satirists of society.
idealists
and jaded pessimists,
individuals
with one common theme;

“It’s time we broke out,” said Rose, pulling her walker closer.
            “When and how shall we do it?”
            “We go out now, while the Entertainer is here.”
            “Me too,” said Edna. She was the frailest of them all, they eyed her doubtfully.
            “Why not?” said Rose.

No one noticed them slip out and regroup outside. They processed, single file, down the carpark, and into the park. Edna followed, drinking in the birdsong and the scent of wet leaves.
            It was the vertical slope downwards that defeated them;
            “My brakes are not that good.”
            “I’ve just had a hip replacement…”
            “We’re missing Happy Hour.”
            “And Serita said there’d be chocolate cake!”
            They turned as one and headed back.
            Edna lingered, until she realised she was alone.

            “My, you’re cold, dear, where have you been?”
            “For a walk in the park.”
            “How nice, dear. Wine or orange juice?”
           
Rose raised her glass, and winked.