BookishBoy
Well-Known Member
A tiny thing, really, but a new poem (by staff writer James Parker) in The Atlantic starts like this:
The trees groan like Morrissey, the rain comes down
and an owl hoots confidentially, knowing something I don’t.
Millions will mourn your departed mother
and millions won’t.
You can read the whole poem here, should you wish to.
The trees groan like Morrissey, the rain comes down
and an owl hoots confidentially, knowing something I don’t.
Millions will mourn your departed mother
and millions won’t.
You can read the whole poem here, should you wish to.
