The Good Old Days

As sure as I breathe and I am me, 

These recollections do reckon to be,

Of back then in the glory days, 

The racing phase of my golden age.

That point in time of illusory pace, 

When I didn’t know I was born and

Kids these days . . . Back in the day, 

Had I the prudence to scribble, scrawl,

To etch that existence into a wall, 

Authentically I would impart exact,

Matter of fact. Before flighty memory fleeing, 

I would have you all seeing

The moment, that blink of an eye, 

That trusty testament in its instant of being.

But try to compose and compile now, why? 

Time has tampered that gone by.

Rosy spectacles feign such glowing history, 

Thus faithful these cannot be;

For now ‘The best years of my life’ 

Are undoubtedly all that I see.

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