The Best of Times                                   Written by: Bob Hamilton

Long ago when I was 22
there was nothing in the world
I thought I couldn’t do.
I felt invincible, like I could never fail,
plus I would live forever – these things
clearly were untrue, but I’d go
back there in the blink of an eye.
It was the best of times.

The seasons turned then I was 44.
With half my dreams dead at my feet
I’d learned that less was more.
We were so happy then, growing
cats and dogs and children,
in our home sweet home
with a red front door. I could
never wish for anything more.
They were the best of times.

I have never said ‘Je ne regrette rien’,
‘cause there’s so much I still do.
But when it comes to tinted glasses,
looking back I tend to favour
rose over blue.

A few more spins and now I’m 66.
Older, not much wiser,
but I’ll pass on these two tips: don’t argue
politics with drunks or lunatics;
and stand up to your lady when she’s
up to her old tricks. Now I’m
looking forward to my next fix
of the best of times.

Maybe one day I’ll be 88,
if they haven’t punched my ticket at the pearly gate.
Will I be sensible
and wear my trousers rolled?
Or will I be like Dylan T.
and rage against my fate? I might sit
back and watch the story unfold,
called the best of times.