I talk not of my past
Nor of the time I currently live in,
I talk of you, oh, dear golden fifties,
Ye good old, olden times!

I revere your simplicity
Your telephone sets, wires and teacups
Your wallpapers, gardens, the air you bore,
Ye good old, olden times!

I know you think I kowtow to you,
Fawning over your superficial designs,
But I speak, in essence of the bold you,
Ye good old, olden times!

As I sing praises of your apparent ease of transition
Your pursuit of hardships, testing or benign,
The historic struggles you successfully fruitioned,
Ye good old, olden times!

I adore the power of love you bestowed in man,
Capable of stringing onto hope, through letters simplistic,
I aspire to be a beloved in your reign,
Ye good old, olden times!

I yearn the peace of mind you gave,
The unadulterated, enunciated words you made speak,
I yearn for bespeaking you first-hand,
Ye good old, olden times!

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