Grandpa Was Here

Going down Lindsay Road, the usual speed, boxer four, family wagon from the crowd in Hannover, that's where they build Vanagons, export with fuel injection. The oldest of the tribe, he buttons now his vinyl shirt, as if to hide his skin there is an atmosphere of need, and of such happiness and love as mother has the ancient stove in slavery, there's cookery in awe, nightfall has come, the bats have sung and generations will have clashed before the rooster's call today. It is no use, my boy, go back to sleep, I will have thought of what you see the same as me.