Steel gates creak <br />As cold winds speak <br />And sweep through the turnstiles <br />Past the sign, “For Sale” <br />Next to the carousel <br />Where the worn horses lie in piles <br />But paints crust <br />And gears rust, <br />Bringing the price down. <br />The blue Northern swipes <br />Through the calliope pipes, <br />Making a humming sound. <br />But it is out of breath <br />And out of tune; <br />Still the merry-go-round <br />Begins to turn, <br />While its steeds still yearn <br />With hooves pawing the ground <br />To gallop away <br />To fields, Hooray! <br />Neighing the only sound. <br />They do not feel cold <br />nor their getting old <br />As their wooden hearts pound <br />Only for children to ride <br />With legs astride <br />So merry, go round, <br />The wind's winding down <br />Go round, merry, go round!<br /><br />Lillian Susan Thomas<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/playland-in-winter/
