I watch their dry mouths moving, and their moping. They have grown attached to griping, and I hear their monotonous coping. They should be devastated with lead piping. They have grown old and tired, I will, in my cycle, go that way too but not before I change the end and we smile and it saves you. We are still young, I decide and we bound off the bus in the rain you, shaking up puddles with your stride and me, wet-lipped and young again.