I, too, started off on the track of 'old chestnuts'. But what about the real ones?
xxxxxxxChestnuts
The chestnut-seller in our street,
A friendly, cheerful fellow,
Would always offer us a treat
When leaves were turning yellow.
All winter long he plied his trade;
He laughed if it was snowing,
And as each day began to fade,
His brazier was glowing.
He’d wink at us and crack some shells,
Then say “Don’t tell the others.”
We’d clutch the bags - those nutty smells! -
And run home to our mothers.
Today, the kids no longer crave
Such treats; chestnuts are passé.
But someone still puts on his grave
A box of marrons glacés.
|