My eyes are tired – of looking at the grey
of winter mornings, at the sorts of cloud
that presage rain or sleet. It is allowed
to be depressed when dark day after day
succeeds and there is very little hope
spring will be any better. Fools and knaves
who'd rather like to make us all their slaves
wreck all around us. Give them so much rope
they wreck themselves? The trouble with that plan
is we tried that before. It didn't work.
Some sit around and weep. Some go berserk.
And some write verses. If I rhyme and scan
it is for fourteen lines to have control
and fight despair before it eats my soul.