That’s progress for you, march of time,
The local that we knew so well:
A dozen years of dirt and grime
Replaced by light and new-paint smell.
Old habits live on, so they say,
The people still behave the same,
Old memories surface day by day:
Same old faces, the same old game.
And though the steersman’s hand is new,
The ship new-found, fresh from the yard,
‘Most every hand’s from former crew
Who know the ropes, old ways die hard.
The captain is no fool: she knows
Every trick from a foremast jack.
I will sit back, see how it goes
With those who wish the old times back.