Where have all the Berties gone?
The lilies that toil not, nor do they spin,
They’ve all arisen with the dawn,
To get their three miles running in.
Then holed up all day, in offices or banks,
Won’t join you in a leisurely brunch,
No afternoon tennis or games or pranks,
Coping with month’s end accounting crunch.
Even dinner is a rushed affair,
No time for idle chat or chit,
March through the rose garden’s scented air,
To meet the quota of the Fitbit.
One sighs for the Berties of yester-year,
Mentally negligible, but always at hand.
One found their naïveté rather dear,
And could have molded them into something grand!
(The above mentioned composition has been whipped up by Lisa Dianne Brouwer who describes herself thus:
“Lisa cut her milk teeth on P.G. Wodehouse. Literally, in fact, as many of her father, Professor W. Brouwer’s orange and white Penguins…
View original post 84 more words
ashokbhatia 
Leave a comment