Whenever I get to feel this way,

try to find new words to say,

I think about the bad old days

we used to know.



Nights of winter turn me cold --

fears of dying, getting old.

We ran the race and the race was won

by running slowly.



Could be soon we'll cease to sound,

slowly upstairs, faster down.

Then to revisit stony grounds,

we used to know.



Remembering mornings, shillings spent,

made no sense to leave the bed.

The bad old days they came and went

giving way to fruitful years.



Saving up the birds in hand

while in the bush the others land.

Take what we can before the man

says it's time to go.



Each to his own way I'll go mine.

Best of luck in what you find.

But for your own sake remember times

we used to know.