Poetry Sunday - Ashes, Ashes

Ashes, Ashes

The maid was in the garden

Hanging out the clothes.

Why the clothes were hanging out,

The drier only knows.

Miss Muffet ate her curds and whey,

While some liked porridge pease.

Alas, I slurped my hot pea soup

And lo-fat cottage cheese.

I'm hiding in the inkwell.

Whatever will they think,

When all that's found of me is bound

To be but digital ink.

Now Mother Goose becomes abstruse

In time, since first created.

For just like grandma's nursery,

Her rhymes get antiquated.

The lesson here, my dear, as sung

I fear, if truth be told,

Is what's so simple when we're young

Is more complex when old. 

This is something I wrote a few years ago. The title, of course, refers decompositionally to the old song we used to sing, "Ashes, Ashes, we all fall down", which was just the "Ring around the Rosy" nursery rhyme when young. Then, as we got older, it was explained as reference to the Black Death, and then, of course, that was debunked.