The Eighties in the Nineties

 Thank you again Gillian for this one.

THE EIGHTIES IN THE NINETIES

It’s nineteen hundred and ninety two,
one more year has passed.
Reflecting on a general view
it seemed shorter than the last.
Routine continues much the same,
though with noticeably less go.
No special high – no feat to claim,
and still can’t set the video. 

Shopping just the same old bind,
still fighting with the trolleys.
It really needs a Sinclair mind
to outsmart all the wallies.
It doesn’t seem the greatest thing
to rid us of the awkward ‘barrow’.
Please, someone with the will to win,
get us on the straight and narrow.

Ideas abound for things to do
to keep one occupied.
Cut the lawn or paint the loo.
(Still a smidgen of pride).
But when time comes for a decision
it seems much easier to watch television.

T.V. alas, for all its good,
has much to answer for.
The ratings list is paramount;
each Channel has to score.
The viewing times dictate the terms,
and the fashions, too, in sport.
Now pansies rise from the starting blocks
instead of from the window box.

Writing is harder, it’s becoming a chore.
The hand won’t control the pen any more.
And spelling which normally slipped into place
nears transliteration – it is a disgrace.
Grammar which never was a strong point
leaves sentences stringing a bit out of joint.
Now, if expression gets into a muck
don’t parse the verb; just pass the buck.

With memory being a bit on the blink.
that search for a name – you try to think.
What’s happened to that little cell?
What was that name, I knew it well.
You hum and ha; it is a foxer,
then you fall back on the ruse of a boxer.
The one, of course, we all should know
the genial giant Frank Bruno.
Instead of coming out nice and clean
simply say “ ‘arry, you know what I mean!” 

Having taken good stock it’s perfectly clear
there’s been no improvement over the year.
But taking account of the general recession
There are no grounds for acute depression.
Community Charge gone, that has to be good
but Council Tax coming – are we out of the wood?

       Frank L Ashen

       RETURN TO LIST OF POEMS

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