My Coat

 

When rain falls with thunderous slam,

And wind beats hard to break any dam,

The world looks like a water-colour painting,

And I know there is no use in waiting

 

Out of my bag I produce a coat,

A nifty cut of fabric which, it’s important to note,

Is M&S’s finest, hand-made, first class,

Two sizes too big but who gives an ass.

 

A constant companion this coat has been,

On some of the best sightings I have seen,

Fireworks in France, the views of Venice,

Wrapping me warm at home to watch the tennis.

 

A shield it has been from cold and rain,

And at my feet in exams while I rack my brain,

An ever-present warmth, an understanding friend,

This coat and I shall stick-it-out till the end.

 

Though, in hale storms harsh and vile,

When I always have to wait around a while,

I stand and ask, as anyone would,

Why the fuck didn’t this bloody thing come with a fucking hood?