Tuesday, 9 June 2009

Lost Boys

Oh sweet, oh darling Peter

Your tender, youthful eyes

Are creasing beneath the orb

Where tears collect. The prize


You almost grasped but lost,

Let slip; who is to blame

For the bitter salt-sting now?

All your laurels, all your fame


They have forgot, or ignored

Or failed to see. They care

Only for youth, not monuments

Of your age. Not fair. Not fair


But true. Never Never-Never Land

Any more. Just your dusty toys

They now ignore; your lost Lost Boys.




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