It's an oldie, but appropriate for the time of year...

Why Do Poets Like Autumn?

Autumn is rain.
Pitiless, bucketing, funeral rain
that makes gutters into rivers
and umbrellas into shreds.
Steaming, fetid rain
tasting of mould and death.

Autumn is roadkill.
Rotting little pools of blood and fur,
once hedgehogs, pheasants, rabbits;
Concertinaed bonnets of Audis
askew across t...

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A quick edit to explain it's just a piece of fun but based on Keat's Belle Dame sans Merci ... if you know that one it makes more sense.

Oh what’s your problem, drunken slob
seen staggering and loitering?
The clock has ticked beyond the top,
And no birds sing.

Oh what’s your issue you sorry man!
You’re swaying and so woe-begone.
The Hacienda’s doors are closed,
And the...

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