Its not my breeze,

its not my bronze,

warmer in the house, or we thought it was,

waiting for the rain to come or the snakes to bite

waiting to turn our backs to the robots, and away from the microwaves, too.

Its all wet, and it keeps coming out that way.

Just carrying the umbrella you’ll develop tennis elbow,

you’ve never played tennis.

Not for years, at least,,

next time there will be no breeze,

not for bronze, at least.