The Waste Land MK 1

(Or what TS Eliot meant to write before he got distracted by all that modernist guff.)

April is the cruellest month,

It pulls the hair of March,

It steals November’s lunch money,

And prods August in the dark.

April spits in September’s beer,

And generally ruins July’s day,

Yes, April is indeed the cruellest month,

Best keep your head down until May.

N.B. Please don’t be alarmed by this poetical interlude – normal Imaginary Travelling service will be resumed shortly.