Battleship grey and glum,
on this grey, wet, wind-whipped day
the suburban Range Rover’s come
to nose round like rhinos at play,
on this grey, wet, wind-whipped day.
They disgorge their giggling cargo,
in cheap fairy wings and bright party clothes,
their giggling, shrieking cargo –
here take Mummy’s hand,
let Daddy wipe your nose
and don’t forget the present
the ribbon-bowed, rainbow-wrapped present.
The cold, grey, wet wind blows.
A few hours later, like balloons through the mist
(once every bump and bruise has been kissed
better), hopped up on cake and sugar,
pleased as prize pigs,
home again, home again, jiggity-jig.
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