In nineteen thirty, Bradman piled on runs at Lord’s;
We sprinted from the bus to beat the hordes.
Our fancy was the first place in the queue.
Did we know then those sharpening their swords?
We should have checked, to see how much was true.
In nineteen thirty-two, the worldwide slump took hold;
There was no fuel to save some from the cold.
We sheltered in our earnest married life.
Did we care for the unemployed and old?
No, we preferred the drama of their strife.
In nineteen thirty-four, you had just reached your prime;
Your metier was to embroider time
With cake-cut words that rolled from every tongue.
Why were we so concerned they should not rhyme?
We were innovators, we were the young.
In nineteen thirty-six, my turn came round to shine;
To agitate and rudely undermine
Fatigued excuses for avoiding war.
Which one was shot for crossing the blue line?
We dragged him back, nailed shut the open door.
In nineteen thirty-eight, we nestled in our bed;
‘The world is doomed.’ I’m sure that’s what you said.
No need to worry, keep watch, go outside.
In here do we not prosper, thrive and spread?
And so we did, until the day we died.