|I watch them|
The children of this now generation;
I watch them in their communal living room,
With their prepackaged trikes
Promoting consumer play;
WIth their attention-deficit psychoses
Pandering to their every whim
|Not for them the billy cart|
Made from planks of rough-hewn pine
And rescued pram wheels.
Not for them the glued
brown-paper kite with shards
Of pleated cloth and biting sisal.
I watch them with a fine melancoly.