All was not lost on me
Gnarled man with your gnarled hand,
bent upon your staff of ages,
dreadlocks unwashed, tied in a band;
can you lead us sir? For here we stand,
helplessly lost in old maps and pages,
we seek the valley path, that lifeline of hand;
for us city slickers, thinking we are so grand!
are hopelessly lost in an argument that rages.
Please sir could you guide our little band
down to the beach, to those miles of sand,
where the tides of life, in all its stages,
run along the shore; and with conch in hand
we will listen to the last of land,
the quince and sweet, sweet greengages;
for we have arrived, our merry band,
and my, oh my, doesn’t it look so grand,
ice cream stalls, all the flavoured sins of ages;
spades and windmills, cones on hand,
kiss me quick, here comes the brass band.