|
Umbrellas here, umbrellas there, Down your throat and in your wet hair, Way up your nose and through your eyes. Obscuring all the love and lies, Manifesting the rotten wet rain, Hiding the learned and insane, Putting a stop to any musing, That means its bits of life we're losing; A mob of brash unkind colours, Hiding sons, sisters and mothers, Making a damp walk on Odyssey; All looking more daft than you or me, For our fashion sense is not lax, We live in the rain in our pack-a-macs. |
| | Poems & Essays | 1964/65 Magazine Index | HOME | |