In Plain Talk

Regressing to my childhood, I can't speak
Except in plain talk, every simple phrase
Reminding me of nursery rhymes, loud praise
Of learning. Knowledge can be pretty bleak,
And redolent of false trails for the meek,
Who will inherit nothing, salad days
When we were setting half the world ablaze,
My brother's war-cry, and my sister's shriek.

Sit down, my children, round the cold hearth here,
And listen to my stories of remorse,
Of desperation and the use of force
To entertain our visitors, through fear,
Intimidation, and bad homemade beer.
Then childhood can end, having run its course.