It was once in some far-off place
That the old would feather their nests,
And the young screamed in frustration,
Rattling the shackles of their cage,
While the middle-aged could afford
To lie back, safe in the knowledge
That their routine would get no worse.
A child, turning its twitchy gaze,
Is certain, in its innocence,
That its life will mine some marvels.
The unborn and the unconceived
Know nothing, officially,
But still have reason to suspect
That what happens there, happens here.