Generations

We knew what was wrong with Grandma
Before we could hardly talk.
She grumbled about her pension
And lost the peas off her fork.
 
Soon after our parents copped it:
The scales fell from our eyes.
He was an obsolete bigot;
She told whopping white lies.
 
For a while we were busy with courting
Then we had kids of our own.
In no time at all we were fogies
And horribly accident-prone.
 
Still, my children’s children are precious:
They chuckle and sit on my knees.
But my pension's a downright disgrace
And my fork keeps losing the peas.
 
Damaris West

If you have any thoughts on this poem, Damaris West would be pleased to hear them.