Rain, rain, rain, rain, rain. It offers the delicate pleasure of the sound it has.
On television a penguin-clothed gent explains how and why.
Rain riddles on the rooftop in rhythm fresh as verse of Heaney. Rain,
rain, rain, rain, rain. It offers that terrefic mass of sound it has, the factory as a belly
filled with unclothed steps, fast on the sudden move it needs.
The verse of Heaney never sounded any better with huge bits of towers tiny rather
getting down to earth. How explain what it did and meant. Rain, rain,
rain, rain, rain. Rain, rain, and again, rain. Quick it comes to the bookshelves with read
and unread books, to the vase with unread pages, clothes and maps of France and Lisbon
covered with a fairly welcome loss of sense, vague volumes of shrub or maybe wood
where bankers penguin-clothed lunch with godless blondes and pages float. Rain,
rain, rain. You may spell it from a terrace, from the garden view, from the river bank
with dried up sailors spoiled with Banaba and cash and Cain. And Heaney dancing.
rain RAIN rain And Heaney dancing. And Heaney dancing. Rain, rain, rain.