Glib—tall men
will all say
on any
old gray day—
cloudy
and slow
like they know—
and with
with an odd bit
of a glum sort
of soft jab
to your kid ribs—Eh? Oh!
The sun!—she
ain't got
no soul
whatever
today!
But you—
being so
solicitous—
you'll want
to know
precisely—who
the hell
are they
from Adam—
to know?
