In my room, I hear raindrops
on my windowsill and rush outside,
desperately try to stop
my jeans from soaking through to the inside.
In the garden, I can hear footsteps
from the neighbours,
“What a lovely day for it” he says - oh the depths
that his observation labours.
I look over the fence and see the bras
are hanging behind the jocks
in sequence, under my breathe I pass
a slight remark about the colour of my frocks (for the sexist lots).
The beehive is so ironic,
neighbourly love is so platonic.
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 4:54 AM UTC
In my room, I hear raindrops
on my windowsill and rush outside,
desperately try to stop
my jeans from soaking through to the inside.
In the garden, I can hear footsteps
from the neighbours,
“What a lovely day for it” he says - oh the depths
that his observation labours.
I look over the fence and see the bras
are hanging behind the jocks
in sequence, under my breathe I pass
a slight remark about the colour of my frocks (for the sexist lots).
The beehive is so ironic,
neighbourly love is so platonic.