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Paul Gerard Reed


Escape With Me


It's not enough to know the world is sour
Now we have to endure another hour
On a Sunday at the end of the week
To prove to us the world is bleak

Now we all have to be chilled to the marrow
Terror shot to our hearts like an arrow
What happened to being comforted a while
By that escapist Sunday style?

Now no longer are we allowed
We just have to join the crowd
We must join hands with the thronging neurotics
Cynicals, moan-a-lots and gritty robotics

Our Sunday evenings no longer paved
With the escapism we openly craved
No casebook for Doctor Finlay to carry
No Arden House with Janet in which to tarry

No longer that brimming feel-good feeling to explain
Now that there's no Lovejoy and Lady Jane
No more nestling in the Yorkshire Dales
With James Herriot when all else failed

No Howard's Way or Onedin Line
To occupy our Sunday evening time
No, now we have Quirke and psychological drama
To spoil the Sundays that were so much calmer

Now we all have to stand in line
And be fed close-up horror and crime
Truthful reality takes up the Sunday slot
But entertaining it certainly is not

Submitted: Sunday, June 01, 2014
Edited: Sunday, June 01, 2014

Topic of this poem: life


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