Time To Lift My Chin
May sunshine tells me I am ready now,
let the bright games begin.
Golden lions on my dark green tea tin
gleam to make me smile within.
A glint on a silver sequin
tells me it’s time to lift my chin.
I bent my head down in winter,
my chin almost at rest on my chest,
but now I look up to see May blossom,
the gardens of England at their best.
Civil Cyril works in the Civic Centre,
that is how he got his name.
If you think those lines are worse than lame,
I confess I am the one to blame.
If I were a Victorian acrobat,
I would be dead by now,
to survive in a sepia photograph,
taken before my final bow.
If I were an Edwardian gamekeeper,
I would have a moustache,
and I would like to recite old parlour songs,
and say things like “I must dash.”
If I were an Elizabethan playwright,
stood in Shakespeare’s shadow,
I would watch his plays on the stage of the Globe,
and pipe my tunes in a meadow.
Here I am, a twentieth century child,
To my wonder it is a pleasure to share
the same universe as you.
May sunshine tells me all is ready now,
give the blue ball a spin.
I have an ocean path to furrow,
I follow a dolphin’s fin.
Whatever will come tomorrow,
I have ample time to lift my chin.
Time to lift my chin.