Pity the drunks in this late April snow.
They drank their hats and coats a week ago.
They touch the sun, they tapped the melting ground,
In public parks we saw them sitting round
The merry campfire of a cider jar
Upon a crocus cloth Alas some are
Already stiff in mortuaries who were
Seduced by Spring to go from here to there,
Putting their best foot forward on the road
To Walkden, Camberwell or Leeds. It snowed.
It met them waiting at the roundabout.
They had no hats or coats to keep it out.
They did a lap or two, they caught a cough
They did another lap and shuffled off.
They drank their hats and coats a week ago.
They touch the sun, they tapped the melting ground,
In public parks we saw them sitting round
The merry campfire of a cider jar
Upon a crocus cloth Alas some are
Already stiff in mortuaries who were
Seduced by Spring to go from here to there,
Putting their best foot forward on the road
To Walkden, Camberwell or Leeds. It snowed.
It met them waiting at the roundabout.
They had no hats or coats to keep it out.
They did a lap or two, they caught a cough
They did another lap and shuffled off.
by David Constantine
For more information about the poet, David Constantine, see:
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