Brand new ones, all shiny,
You could see right through,
A swirly bit in the middle,
Rusty red, Orange, Green or Blue.
Some a bit worse for wear,
Dull, chipped, seen better days,
When you were a kid you didn’t care,
As you nudged and flicked in
The summers sun filled haze.
You’d hold one up to the light,
Such a mystery in that tiny world,
How did they get them in there?
The little spirals that spur or curled.
If I took a hammer, oh I couldn’t,
Would the shape stay whole?
I pondered, but I knew I wouldn’t,
Solid inky blue, with a tape worm
Like thread of white, a jar full
On the sunny windowsill.
Would your eyes ever tire of,
The sight? You’re not a lass now you know,
But a grown up kid of fifty five.
But as you sit gazing fondly at your mabs
Those games from your childhood,
Come Alive!