Generations

We knew what was wrong with Grandma
Before we could hardly talk.
She grumbled about her pension
And lost the peas off her fork.

Soon after our parents copped it:
The scales fell from our eyes.
He was a bigoted stick-in-the-mud;
She told whopping white lies.

For a while we were busy with courting,
Then we had kids of our own.
In no time at all we were fogies,
And horribly accident-prone.

Still, my children’s children are precious:
They chuckle and sit on my knees.
But my pension is nowhere near adequate
And my fork keeps losing the peas.
 

by Damaris West

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