The Wind's Monologue Poem by Jack White

A roaring tour,
A discourse of sorts,
A forcefully coarse amour.

My play, your dismay,
Your fully clothed body
With nose and ear exposed,
Are sights to grab hold,
On this cold, cold wintry day.

The sun’s no match for me,
Can’t you see?
My frigid blast,
Casts passed
Sun’s warming trend.

Listen to my roaring
Coursing sound.
You can’t escape,
I shan’t taper off,
That’s not my discourse.
I’m a roar that’s tossed your way,
My frigid blasts- tour de force.