Time Waits for No Old Man.

I saw four handsome horses walking sedately down my lane today. And on each of their backs sat a pretty young maid. And each young maid had a pony tail flowing and swinging seductively from the back of her riding hat. And the pretty young maids laughed and talked while the handsome horses clipped and clopped. They arrived on the in-breath and left on the out.

And I smelt again the foetid stench of the tyrant Time, and tasted the rancid flavour of ever-polluted prospects.

And then, for once, I wished I were a poet.