Old Iron

by Lee A. Hart

My dear old uncle Bill,
He left me in his will,
His elegant old pocket watch and chain.
I wore it for a walk,
But folks began to talk,
And so I had to take it off again.

I drove down to the park
In my Studebaker Lark,
A car I've loved since 1965.
I guess I should have known
I'd hear the kiddies groan.
"You gotta be the dumbest man alive!"

When granny died at 103,
She left her accordion to me.
I practice polkas every chance I can.
But when I start to play,
The youngsters run away.
"Why ain't that awful racket-maker banned?"

My records all still play
Songs never heard today.
And I still have a dial on my phone.
My clock still ticks, and tells the times
With elegant Westminster chimes.
It works for me, but how the critics moan.

My treasures may be lame,
I love them all the same,
Although you think they're worthless junk today.
But when your toys have crashed,
And thrown out in the trash,
Mine will still be working every day!

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Another poem that hits close to home. I really have an uncle Bill, who repaired pocket watches. My brother still has his Studebaker. My grandma really did leave me her accordion (she was 106, but that didn't rhyme). Indeed, I do have a mechanical clock with Westminster chimes, a record player, a 50-year-old phone, and many other "antiques" that I use regularly. For that matter, I am an antique, myself!


A poem by Lee A. Hart, © 1984-2019 by Lee A. Hart. Created 3/6/2012. Last updated 3/1/2019.
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