Bad Poetry from a Mad Poet

British rain can be a strain

When I see it running

Down my window pane

And the big grey sky

Above floats by

The winter wind

Growling and howling

Yet again shouting

Its winter cry

And as the winter slowly passes

I finally find

I am defeated

I have lost my mind

Just a little break

A few shafts of sun

So I can look up and smile

And skip and run

But not today

As I avoided flood and mud

My optimism

Crushed with a mighty thud

But tomorrow is another day

And there is just a chance

Some sun

Might come my way

But it might be too late

indeed

It might be too late

Too late

Because I might be mad

YES MAD

HAHAh ahah ah a ha ha ha ha ha ha haha ha ha ha 

hha hahahaha ha ha

As I point and laugh

At small puddles

And jump up and down in them

And hit them with sticks

To make them sad.

And I will tell rivers

They are going the wrong way

And see what they have to say

And I will tell toads

About the seven seas

And that sailor Sinbad

But only because I have gone completely

MAD

Stark staring totally barking loony

MAD

MAD

HAH CAH aha ha ha ha hha ha ha ha ha jhdjahreuqwq3 jhfj hfjh kh h kAh hhah aha ha ha ha ha ha ha ow ehdashdjhurpyqwrttrewrpur-3977r5 ffglgjhjh ha ha ah ha ha ha 

OOOoooo look a Seagull