The carousel at White City Park is gone where we rushed across the circle's rim while Grandfather waved us on and on. Like ranchers at an auction we inspected every horse's wooden grin to find the fiercest one to leap upon.
The carousel at White City Park is gone where we passed by smaller children in coaches, pulled by elephant and swan,
strapped in by the buckle man we ducked, not letting him tie us, while grandfather waved us on.
Taller riders leaped against the gong of golden bells along the scallop trim of the magic circle which is long gone
with its honky tonky organ songs. But its fantasies don't dim: of someone cheering us on while we go in circles all day long.