Had to put Our cardies on, they say, or Natives friendly, Or just Wish you were here. He knows, the postman, They don't say what they mean, mean what they say. Is a minor rehearsal for the final take-off. Post-op Artists are wrong about light. They strew it Tastefully across landscapes, let it focus Thoughtfully on a forehead or a cabbage, Self-consciously walk down a reach of water.
Artists are wrong.
Light comes storming out of its corner Dealing dazzling uppercuts to the eyes. That's good, says Light, I knew you'd like it, And demonstrates The unexpected awfulness of the tiles on the kitchen floor.