They’ve built houses over our old den, Cut the oak tree down where we used to torture ants, Pensioners live there last days here now, Trying to contain pureed food from wrinkled faucets. The glistening aluminium from the climbing frames rusted, Left jousted upon a shingle embankment, The caretaker contorts in a state of remorse, as his house crashes down in a fountain of splinters. My childhood memories flood back, The times I would make Julia Pearson cry, By flashing her my ass as her mum would drive by. The guarantee of solitude, Playing, making spit pies, Getting away with being rude, By working those innocent eyes, I miss being the King of the Castle, Miss being the dirty rascal, And my father who would carry me on his shoulders, Telling me I would be that big one day, I remember everything he ever told us, But like my childhood, Things change, people move away