They said it would rain
They said it would do so at four
Rain… at four… for sure
They said that it would rain upon Magpie and Plover
They said: “It would be best
If you ran for cover;
Lest you discover the meaning of wet.”
It isn’t quite four
And I haven’t run yet
They say I’m mad
And who am I
To say different.
‘They’ ‘say’ that my poetry really stinks; that, if heard, it would bring a grimace to the face of the immutable Sphinx; but, I don’t care what anyone thinks; my poetry is fine… to me.’They’, also ‘say’ that my rhymes are turgid and bland; that they could curdle milk and cause plagues throughout the land; but, I don’t mind, I understand – ‘they’ just don’t get the point… do you see? And ‘who’ are ‘they’ anyway? Just some jumped up critics, I suppose, analytics or the like, who can just get on ‘their’ bikes and go and read prose!
