The world had more colour then,
The people had more to lose
And even more to live for.
But maybe the system has always been this myth.
Polished silver, laughter,
And the smell of tobacco smoke.
A nation rolling on iron ribbons
Towards something almost within reach.
Movement inured to privilege.
T Shirts as fig leaves.
In a nation that asks for handouts
To renovate a home on Sussex Drive.
Our end of the bargain is
At odds with this age.
Its eulogy heard in
The long wail of the train whistle.
By W.N. Branson
