Students skipping as buses splash through puddles,
Showering shelters either side of the road.
Beyond, on one side, a grotesque building goads,
Faux-Roman blocks of rectangular muddle.
From September to May the thousands huddle,
Zipped up from that fine rain which soaks through clothes.
At ten to each hour, teeming as they roam,
Pavements prop up the hangover's struggle.
I was one of these, but not one of these.
These many a sheep, who without a shepherd
So often fail to see wood through gnarled bark.
This timber I chopped through with consummate ease.
A breeze, this lifestyle, not one to defer,
With brains and mild effort, surely a lark.
No comments:
Post a Comment