492 - Dark wet poetry

On dark and rainy January nights
In Manchester, the poetry falls down
Through cracks in the ceiling, missing the lights,
Landing on tables, where it’s passed around.
They aren’t all serious: you’ll hear the sound
Of titters, tatters and mad hatters there,
As rain pitters and patters on the town,
On Oxford Road and here in Albert Square.
The puddles will befuddle you - beware
When leaving the library! Keep your sights
On road and pavement, or your feet will drown
In pools of people’s lyrical despair.
The best antidote to such unplanned plights
Is popping to the pub. Hey, it’s your round…
Wed 9 Jan 2008