The working man worked
And drove home
And dwelled a minute on his life
And showered
And dwelled a minute on his life
In blue donegal tweed
And built a drink
In the umber evening light
And reclined on the grass
And dwelled a minute on his life—
He closed an eye
And filled the other with a scene
And fell asleep
And spilled the cocktail
And his dreams
On his herringbones
In the long shadow of what is
And never will be his life.
Impolitic 