The Fury Of Rainstorms

The rain drums down like red ants,

Each bounces off my window.

The ants are in great pain

And they cry out as they hit

As if their little legs were only

Stitched on and their heads pasted.

And oh they bring to mind the grave,

So humble, so willing to be beaten upon

With its awful lettering and

The body lying underneath

Without an umbrella.

Depression is boring, I think

And I would do better to make

Some soup and light up the cave.