Those Were The Days Poem by Dave SmithWhite

So those were the days:
A childhood re-appraised,
When in retrospect, it's gazed at, from a distance.
Those were the stays,
That corset core mores,
The structure and the bones of his existence.

So those were the days,
Of the post colonial phase.
When a people pays for war by wage attrition.
For those were the days,
Of crass headline clichés;
Stirring up the pot, a proud tradition.

So those were the days,
When he built his world with clays.
Like plasticine his memories evolved.
The early steps he took,
When he first read a book,
The faster he could glean the hook resolved.

For those were the days,
Of the fear evoking phrase.
Those were the years of distortion.
For those were the days,
In a deep cry of malaise,
The pie was not shared equally in portion.

For those were the days,
As the gradual change essays;
When the sheep were left to graze in delusion.
But if the status quo won't hold,
As the strife events unfold,
A toxic social mould might spread confusion.

For those were the days,
Of the military forays,
To prop up proxy puppets by collusion.
Was the fault, the C.I.A.'s,
From the dark vaults in the maze?
From the slickest lips came the glib solutions.

Now the deal is, when young,
You long for real fun,
But could he ever reveal his truest fancy?
His passion for style and curls,
Went someways with the girls,
But fashion ne're concealed a prouder pansy.

For back, 'in the day',
Hairdressing or ballet,
Were professions that many thought, suspect.
How you move, how you sway,
And embellish your cachet,
The single signal sign of a nameless defect.

For back 'in the day',
The world was drab and grey,
And colours were viewed with some suspicion.
Any artistic intent,
Was assumed to be bent,
And many faced full hatred and derision.

For those were the days,
Of the daft fad and the craze.
With the most uptight and strait-laced of censors.
For those were the traits,
Of the state's backward gaze.
While the unions fought the war in the trenches.

For those were the days,
When a rum back-handed praise,
Weren't near enough to stifle vile rumours.
When innuendoes were raised,
You could go down in a blaze,
With the grim and storied perverts and their groomers.

For back 'in the day',
(It's always hard when gay) .
The closets were jam-packed with lay pretenders.
So many were afraid,
Of the contacts that they made,
Who portrayed them but as cracked and crazed offenders.

So he would take note,
Of all that he wrote,
To ensure that his output was 'normal'.
So his conventional words,
Became as stiff and thick as curds,
It was as stilted as it was staid and way too formal.

Yet his songs had these themes,
Of sad stolen dreams,
But public esteem was so chancy.
With a musical skill,
That was more cool than chill,
Still everyone knew him a nancy.

So while he craved some fame,
Or a rare and just acclaim,
His words fairly rode the top forty.
He'd keep his head, and stay aloof,
While others, it's said in truth,
Got to play up and play up naughty.

For those were the days,
Of a thing for crude displays;
Of a lavish wealth and power in grand effusion.
There was no failure to exult,
For when greed becomes a cult,
The bling rubs-in insult and rude exclusion.

For those were the days,
Of the zombie stare and glaze,
With the deer in the headlights in profusion.
In a numbed soporific daze,
Or an alcoholic haze,
Of giving dumb assent, but never choosin'!