Journey for Two

Here is the footpath, here is the street
That bears the weight of our four flat feet;
At the end of the road of civilisation,
There we walk, the dregs of a nation.
Dregs of a culture, too, of a race,
With no one left to lift its face.
Eager once, it slouches, sighs,
And sniffs at the crows' feet round its eyes.
But we shan't care, we shan't stop
To observe the soft and sinewy rot
That eats away the firm round flesh,
And leaves a subtly ageing mesh
Of sagging skin, reveals the frame
Of grey gristle, dead in all but name.
O, rub the frantic skin food in,
Breathe a halitosic prayer,
O, set the rapidly receding chin,
And let us carry on!

—R.E.H.