Wednesday, 26 February 2014

an eighty second poem...'carry on carrington'

David glanced furtively out the window. 
The rain was slanting down. 
The deep creases on his furrowed
Brow showed as he frowned.
He took a tentative sip of his tea:
Had Phil remembered two sugars?
Or had Robin substituted a packet of
Cornish Sea Salt once more?
If so, it would mean another needless
Round of British Military Fitness,
And then – perhaps, hopefully – war!

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