The Old Guard

The is a place, a Schrodinger's cats box

Containing many pops who still have their vox

Wendy who sees all and never ever wavers

telling you you're fucking ugly and demanding a bag of Quavers

Jim deciding its time to to kick up a fuss

Standing and saying his name like he's bloody Spartacus

(No I'm Jim, no I'm Jim, no I'm Jim, no...)

Ian wanting help to solve being eighty four

Before conking out in a chair with a room rumbling snore

Jenny not a square of floor she doesn't pad

Mistaking all comers for being a ninety one year old's dad

Edna singing to the radio like a free and easy breeze

Shouting German at the staff she takes for Nazis

Barry drumming along to a song he adores

And if a track appears he dislikes he'll take a piss on the floor

And if only to be there again through legitimate reason

Seeing out one more, just one more changing of the season

But then it must be left to be carried on by the old guard

May their voices and stories always go on heard