Aura Thundera
deonii@yahoo.com
A cardboard box, under the eaves
A plastic bin in a cold cellar
A sealed tub in a storage shed
Where the dreamers keep
The stuff of memory.
Yellowed papers, old magazines
Once and forver cherished
Records, photos, posters
David Cassidy's yellowed face
Peers from the aged things.
Once in awhile, taken down
And the birds unleashed
The albums played again
The posters shown to day
This is the way to Memory Lane.
Long and long ago for now
The music stopped at six-ninety-eight
The end of joy and innocence
The fading of first love
And the band is gone.
The lunchboxes and albums,
Buttons, posters and puka-shells
Thrown away or packed in boxes
And forgotten by the ones
Who think the music died.
But some knew much, much better
And held the memory tight
Cherished the treasure of the past
And watched the flame relight.
They know the way to Memory Lane.
Nothing died that night in seventy-four
There's still music in Sycamore Lane
And the band is still in the garage
They're there yet, if you know how to go
Turn right on Memory Lane.
There's room on the bus for us all this day,
So c'mon along...we'll turn right on Memory Lane!
David Cassidy is his own property, much as certain people I know might wish otherwise ;).
698 Sycamore Lane, the bus, and the Partridge Family are the property of Screen Gems/Columbia Pictures.
