Suburban development

"Times are a'changin',"
they used to say as they tilted back their white wicker rocking chairs, and no one could
figure out whether or not
it was a good thing.

"Times are a'changin',"
and I sit on the porch of my
classic oak brook house watching
the slaughter of memories.

"Times are a'changin',"
and it\'s funny how they
make sport of it, wielding tools that
no one should.

"Times are a'changin',"
when unashamed delight on the faces of children
fades away into subtle seriousness.

"Times are a'changin',"
so you can't play in the streets anymore, you'll get
run over, but it's alright,
you're inside studying
anyway.

"Times are a'changin',"
sing a couple of guys in green. They're
bringing down some old trees and later come
the machines, hungry for
houses that hold only ghosts.

"Times are a'changin',"
I'm told, by the cool wind that
puffs at my face. It blows away everything,
save marred memories and
demolished dreams.