We, ourselves, are bridges
Between the now and then.
Some things are in the future,
Some we'll never see again.
Everything seems in its place
So normal, and so set
As things are they will always be
But we must not forget
That change is always happening
We are just an interim
Between a curious future
And a past that's growing dim.
The London bridges I remember
Looked like bridges look,
But that was very different
From those in a history book.
And very very different from
Those that may one day be
When designs will be, for certain,
Of amazing modernity.
And people are also bridges
Between the old and new.
You are just a go-between.....
Yes, dear, even you.
A futuristic design for a London bridge incorporating a farm!
Forget about picnics beneath the trees,
A glass of wine and a hunk of cheese.
That the word has a certain similarity
Is certain to give rise to hilarity.
For 'pyknic' means 'to be short and stout'!
Not tall and lissom, without a doubt!
Take your trusty measuring tape
And if you are of a 'pyknic' shape,
You'll find, when measured overall,
You're just as wide as you are tall.
This condition is far from harmful;
It means that you're a cuddly armful.
You may wobble a bit it's true
But that simply adds to the charm of you.
Although you are not slim and slinky
Remember that you're plumply dinky.
It will come as no surprise
To learn that many folk like your size.
Tired of women who always diet,
They like you because you wont try it.
As for height, I've found, myself,
That when things are on the topmost shelf,
A packet or a sardine can,
I can find the nearest handsome man,
And, with youthful agility,
He will reach it down for me.
And, merely by saying a 'pretty please'
I may get a parting squeeze!
This doesn't happen often, mind you,
But who knows when romance will find you.
So never moan and never gripe.
Be glad that you're a 'pyknic' type.