The sky is blue, the morning bright
because it rained all bloody night
and every drop of that cold rain
has lodged itself into my brain
The fluffy sheep dot the green field -
When summer comes their wool they'll yield
When autumn comes I'll buy a jumper
but now it's May: I need a hamper
to have a picnic with the ghost
of one I thought forever lost
And sheep and grass and blue sky
will tell me I must forever try
To strike some sort of conversation
with this lost ghost / this small nation.
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