I certainly don't come with
That inane innocence
Of never have been opened before
I have been through a few hands, in my time..
And it perpetually surprises me
That my time still goes on
I thought I'd feel old soon
When I was held by a pair of wrinkled hands
On an early morning, in the London tube
I looked at the others around me,
With a crisp glaze of fresh make-up
On their newly manufactured covers
They looked more attractive
Against my yellowed, dog-eared pages
Then I was sent off to the United States
Borrowed, left unread, forgotten!
Bought by students in second hand shops
And left behind in boxes, for the younger, prettier ones..
Sometimes, used as an unusual aid
To write down numbers of strangers on the train..
My story has been told
Again and again.
It has been criticized too..
A lot of trivial important men,
Have had their trivial claws sharpened
On my so-called controversial plot..
But if you want, we can pretend
To start all over again.
I am getting a bit too old for that..
But what thrills me, is that my time
Is yet, not over!
