Monday, 29 April 2013

© The Good Old days?

© The Good Old days?

Old folk speak in reverent tones of the good old days; but if truth be told... what do they mean?
People squeak in monotones full of high praise for simpler times, of duty, honour, work – the Queen! 
Parents, wearing rose-tinted glasses, recall fondly skipping classes admonishing their kids.
“In my day we did mental arithmetic, get it wrong: you got the stick”- I don’t miss that for quids.
We used to stand in ones and tandem in the theatre when they played the anthem; seems so daft,
Yet even later during the fifties it was still considered nifty to have our Betty salute from a draft –
Horse, at the end of telly transmission then came an intermission of sleep; now that’s a weird notion.
Migrants coming from the ‘old dart’ had to part with ten pounds to sail six weeks upon the ocean.
Coming to a ‘white’ Australia, bringing just the right paraphernalia, to become post-war pioneers.
Oh my dears, it’s so hot and all those flies get in your eyes, have a meat pie; another round of beers?
Or if you’d prefer a lovely Porphyry Pearl my girl; but just in the ladies lounge of course after chores.
All this palaver about the glass ceiling and I’ve been kneeling down all day scrubbing floors.
‘Course here in the superb suburbs we’ve the best of all - a new asbestos abode, cheap but hardy.
Not that it matters, that’s another load to carry; we mourn the passing of Empire night. That’s right!
When we used to let off bungers and crackers; now we let off after burgers at Macca’s, bellies tight.
No need to get vexed, I’ll just slip off to the quack to get my cholesterol checked or take a Bex,
And a good lie-down, no need to frown! Ah, the good old days with fresh rabbit in the ice-chest.
But best of all, there wasn’t any sheilas sprawled in the lodge ‘cept Dame Patti or Zara from far away.
Anyway... sorry anyhow, where’s the crocodile bloke now? ‘Believe he shot through from Byron Bay.     
Whatever happened to Davy, Baume and Lawsy and those other saucy jocks from the radio missed?
Never mind there’s still Jonesy, getting his knickers in a twist when the media watchdog slaps his wrist.
It’s nice to know that some sacred cows are still protected, if not infected with their self importance.
Even music is not what it was: the rock’s been rolled and jazz just doesn’t cut it with gen x, y and Zaid.
That’s what I said, not zee. English you see has been homogenised, globalised...which one is read?
We read in despair about rock stars, some lacking hair, become politicians. It shouldn’t be their mission,
To preach about climate change; their views are quite deranged when they deride nuclear fission.
After all that’s how we won the war in ’44, no...45! Besides, I’m still alive – where is Maralinga anyway?
Out in the desert you say? Good job, mind you...don’t want to rob the Aborigines of their right to stay.
I’ll tell you what started global warming, it’s all them blessed satellites swarming around the sky.
As Bob once said to Dolly, “Now we’re in dire straits”. Mates, that’s a pun but it’s no fun to die.
And as far as this daylight saving business goes, it’s fading me curtains and clothes; chooks won’t lay!
Say, I know send them all off to the Colonel; he’ll well and truly take care of them, not like in my day.

When you wanted takeaway, you went to the corner shop where some wop served fish ‘n’ chips,
Drenched in vinegar, wrapped in newspaper. Politically incorrect admittedly but as you lick your lips,
Remember, you’re not as dim as you sim; some things change for the better some do not. So please,
No need to jettison all your memories, there’s one or two trees left to please your jaded sensibilities.
The good old days fade to a haze and become the bad new hours, where flowers, still bloom.
And the baby boomers generation, once the leaders of the nation, now face impending doom...
Of the planet. Also I must give mention that we’re now entitled to the old age pension – incredulous?
Yes, time marches on inexorably, and nostalgia is now the fuel that fires me but my kids are not jealous.     

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