I am an old walking stick just a bit of old  tack

Hiding in the attic on a dusty old rack
Alone and discarded among the forgotten
Nestled between old coats and reels of white cotton.

No one remembers me and of years long ago
With my polished silver handle and my black rubber toe
The miles I have travelled come shine or come rain
I was considered to be the elite of the cane

Walking down Oxford street on a bright summers morn
Listening to the sound of the Hansom cab’s horn
Trotting along looking shiny and smart
then there’s  the shires pulling the monger’s cart

Sometimes I’d be lifted and waved  in the air
To summon a cab to be the next fair
I’ve seen all the changes that have taken place
From transport and households and all human race

I was lovingly fashioned from a black cherry tree
I’ve had lots of masters since eighteen oh three
Been polished and cared for and stood by the bed
Even been used at times to bash someones head

Now I’m stuck in the attic with nowhere to roam
Waiting for someone to give me a home
If I’m left here much longer i will feel little bites
Getting chewed up by thousand of mites!