Forty years ago
When I awoke early
And ran down to the mess
For early breakfast
It was not to get to
Class on time
It was to get to
A pristine newspaper first
Not to the first page
But to the last
To the crossword
There were those of us
Who pencilled in the grid lightly
Filling in only critical letters
So that others could erase and reuse
After we were done
Communal crosswords those
Some beginners needed to
Ink in everything
And some who didn’t need to
Inked in everything
Out of a cussedness
Blaring
Kilroy was here
Killjoys those
Forty years on
I find I am surrounded by
The same sorts of people
Black and White, shall we say?
Those who enjoy what they are doing
To the hilt
Revel in it for its own sake
And those who have one eye
On the main chance
The medal, the pay-off, the laurels
Some sort of reward
At the very least
To be able to say
Kilroy was here before you
Plus ça change
Plus c’est la même chose