Dear Father Time: 

Permit me to say, my dear Father Time

In this letter I write you (that I’m going to rhyme)

It looks like the future’s a big disappointment

Take pimples, for instance, there’s still not an ointment . . .

And no flying cars, now what’s up with that?

And where is that pill that you promised for fat?

No robots to wait on us twenty-four seven?

No ray guns to use to send someone to heaven?

Oh sure, we’ve got lasers, but that point is moot

When you up and forgot: anti-gravity boot

And where, may I ask, are time travel machines?

On the junk heap, no doubt (with the synthetic spleens)

My dear Father Time, I’m  perplexed and chagrined

That you’ve fallen behind on the future therein

After talking it over with Jack Frost and Cupid

I regret to inform you (I really feel stupid)

It’s time to let someone else give it a whirl

You’ve just been replaced by the Calendar Girl