poetic decay

Hark, Hark the dogs do bark, the beggars have come to town.
I remember my mum saying that when I was a kid. She used to know the beginning of lots of old nursery rhymes, but never all the way through. These rhymes as a child, and even now spoke to me of a time before this one I'm in now. They even spoke to me then, of a time before the one I was in as a child.
Not last night, but the night before, Two Tom cats came a knocking at the door, I went down stairs to let them in, They knocked me down with a rolling pin, The rolling pin was made of glass, They knocked me down upon my arse.
Another one for the memory banks, making me wonder then, as it does now, who made that up?

It's a kind of older, darker memory, before my birth of the dark alleyways of foggy London town, where Wee Willy Winky ran upstairs downstairs in his night gown. Sounds like he was bit of a naughty boy old Willy.
These old nursery rhymes are like an old re discovered mine, or tunnel, that's been covered over for years. It lets me smell the old coal fires in the kitchens, the smell of candles burning, dampness in the walls and floors. Of cooking, and steam, and old rubber.
Although I love my shiny i phone, and my lovely mac, I do still long for some of those smells and sounds, the one's I no longer smell or hear.
The future's now mate, everything's been straightened out. It's all shiny and smooth with no soul. The old dark chimneys, and all of the horse shit is no more. And strangely part of me says, What a shame.