You needn’t be born a Bourbon
To dream your funereal deluge,
Some climactic climatic disturbance
To rain out the end of your reign.
A desultory drizzle of tears
Is the most that most of us get,
Precious precipitation
But scarcely the torrent we merit.
We’d prefer a proportionate downpour
But will settle for rills swelling
And basements portentously flooded—
Though even some frustrated faucets
Would do, a drop in the pressure,
Ice in the pipes of the world.
YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE
Christie’s Compelling Criminals
In the latest installment of the ongoing interview series with contributing editor Mark Bauerlein, Theodore Dalrymple joins…
Lethe
He thought he saw her in the orchid house / and all the flowers seemed to disappear...
On Suddenly Having Several Children
"God never gives us more than we can take,” / the midwife told us, after catching...
