Nowadays a home seems like a cavern
or the play of "No Exit" to view.
We try very hard to laugh and not glower,
as we think of the things we used to do.

Those were the days, my friend,
but they’ve come to an end.
We can no longer do things the old ways.
Chickens have come to roost;
the playbook we once used
has become junk we need to throw away.

Wah, wah, wah wah…!

Minutes seem like years that crawl and don’t rush;
with tick marks on the wall I mark each day…
looks like art in Altamira’s caverns
made by a three-year-old who was at play.

I count the days, sans end;
to the wall I append
a mark applied in a dull Sharpie way.
The paint job I abuse,
but what is there to lose?
The marks are black on white; my mood is gray.

Wah, wah, wah wah…!

Day and night we hunker in our caverns;
nothing is the way it used to be.
Into a glass I pour a concoction
with a proof that’s well beyond ninety.

Those were the days, my friend,
but they’ve come to an end.
We can no longer do things the old ways.
Chickens have come to roost;
the manuals we used
have become junk that’s no longer in play.

Wah, wah, wah wah…!

Through the door no one’s allowed; I hafta
keep any and all visitors at bay.
I’m sorry I can’t be any nicer,
but on the porch is where they all must stay.

I keep at bay old friends
and hope I don’t offend,
but we just cannot do things the old ways.
On the porch they must roost;
I can’t give them a boost.
I hope some fun we’ll have some distant day.