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Chard Whitlow

Rating: 2.9
(Mr. Eliot's Sunday Evening Postscript)

As we get older we do not get any younger.
Seasons return, and to-day I am fifty-five,
And this time last year I was fifty-four
And this time next year I shall be sixty-two.
And I cannot say I should like (to speak for myself)
To see my time over again - if you can call it time:
Fidgeting uneasily under a draughty stair,
Or counting sleepless nights in the crowded tube.
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COMMENTS
Tim Whittingham 22 May 2019
It's a wonderful poem! As a parody of Eliot it doesn't quite work - he doesn't quite have the measure of Eliot but it's still funny and moving and a little bit scary all at once, which is saying something!
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Clive Granger 01 September 2018
very clever and funny-is it a place?
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