Vintage Poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar

Rich it is and vintage.
Those making attempts to re-invent,
Old and expired games to play.
Peeled from a molding of rusting chips.
Unable to stay in place.
From an obvious decay.
Yet polished as if to acknowledge,
These games to play have been renewed.
And reborn again,
Given approval to be used.

Vintage also are the sentiments.
To introduce a past,
Few lived to have had not to see.
And perceived to be unfamiliar.
With the same games played.
Although renovated to update,
With an unchanging way...
To play hoodwink, dupe and deceive.

So rich it is,
For those who have begun...
Using their minds.
Knowing what is antiquated.
And not dumb or deaf and far from blind.
To use that which is vintage.
Leaving those who sit on their behinds.
The ones left to do this.
While wining and dining,
On their own B.S.
To eventually find this,
Nothing more than what it is.
And left,
By themselves.
Distressed.
But too late to address,
The origin and smell of it!