LONGING FOR LANGUOR.

We are weary round here
In the summer,
And autumn and winter
And spring,
And wearier next year
And number,
And as confused as we
Are convinced;

For there is seldom a slot
In the schedule,
Or programme or posting
Or plan,
And as often as not
It is sped through,
And over before
It began.

For the next is as near
As is needed,
Or wanted or shouldered
Or took,
Whilst the last was unclear
And conceded,
And not quite as long
As a fuck.

So forgive us our bread
And our butter,
And breakfast and dinner
And tea,
And throw us well fed
In the gutter
Once our intervals have
Been increased.