The Cafe

In the depths of Winter, here’s a taste of the Summer to come. It’s a true story!

The Cafe

Went to the cafe by the sea for some peace and a quiet time.
Sometimes there are hordes of kids who shout and shriek and whine.
No kids today but instead, a group of long-ago ‘Young Guns’
Guzzling coffee, scoffing sausage rolls and enormous sticky buns.

The talk was of things they’d done in their dim and distant past.
Flouting auhority. Rock concerts. The Rolling Stones.
(Now, who would have thought THEY’D last??).
“Anyone who looks like them should technically be dead.
Remember when Keith Richards fell out of a tree and landed on his head?”

As they drained their cups to the bottom, their voices grew louder and louder,
Some admitting that yes, when they were young, they’d sniffed that strange white powder….
…..Or smoked a joint or two for fun. A doobie, hash or riff.
Green Goddess, Mary J or pot. Reefer, grass, weed, spliff.

“My Dad never, ever understood”, one forlornly said,
“The genius of Hendrix. He played Mantovani instead.
“Mind you” (and on he went) “This stuff that they call Rap.
Is there not a letter missing to best describe the clap-trap?”

They complained of pot-holes and Councils. They complained an awful lot
About things not being what they were and how life today is rot.
They looked as pretty girls walked by and wished for just a glance.
Trying to recall what they’d do with them, given half a chance.

When young they had such power. Rebels all, some of them branded tykes
With their flashy roadsters revving. Now they use electric bikes.
This, then, is the life of a Senior. They complain, reminisce and cuss
About loss of hair, strength and youth, aching bones. But hang on –
The older we get we realise how that noisy old gang could be us!