Your time in the sun passed years ago,
Yet you return and return, you bring your children,
You laugh at our struggles, and dance in our gardens.

"This is not how it used to be," wistfully you complain.
Are the flowers still as bright as they used to be?
You think the colors fade, but it is only your memories
That grow from plainest truth to glorious fancies.

Every year you raise your giant tents among our homes,
You raise up your heads with confidence and false pride.
You tell us, "You'll be like us someday,
If you work hard-- and you're lucky."

But you come wearing your finest suit,
And driving a luxury car you can't afford--
The trappings of success thinly veil your life
In a world that has long since ceased to excite.

As you trample our grass with your ridiculous dances,
You trample over our best hopes for the future.
Someday we will be like you: old, broken, and mourning
That the best years of our life have passed us by.


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