The rain is coming down in sheets;
"It's wet me bum!" Walt Whitman bleats.
And thus, say Wordsworth, Byron, Keats,
"It won't stop bloody raining!"
A river's flowing down the path;
"Let's step outside and take a bath,"
McGough tells Hughes, who then tells Plath,
"It won't stop bloody raining!"
Outside, a lake is rippling,
(Though Hopkins would say 'stippling')
while Tennyson and Kipling
cry, "It won't stop bloody raining!"
Now Shakespeare takes a swim; he's lost,
where all the waves are tempest-tossed,
and this from Shelley, Donne and Frost:
"It won't stop bloody raining!"
The house is floating -- off we go.
"We're catching up with Willy, though,"
call Yeats and Dickinson and Poe.
"It won't stop bloody raining!"
So down the stream, across the lake,
till Walter Scott yells, "Where's the brake?"
To Carroll, Coleridge and Blake,
"It won't stop bloody raining!"
At last our good ship runs aground,
and listen, what's that pleasing sound?
It's Hardy, Angelou and Pound -
"Thank God it's not still raining!"
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Author Notes
This morning I posted a poem called 'It's Dry Again', very pleased with myself that I'd got the first of the six required to be eligible for ranking. Alas, new Zealand is the first to see the New Year, while the east coast of America drags its feet 18 hours behind and my poem was posted before last year's ratings were cleared!
Anyway, it's been raining all day, so it's definitely not dry again. In fact, it won't stop bloody raining. Then this bunch of disreputable ruffians came and forced their way into the poem....
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