Poem by Rita Jette
it drips and drips,
to the tune of dismay,
so melancholy is the sound,
that pitter patters on the nerves,
till depression does rouse within,
and bring forth the black within.
it pours and pours,
to the tune of violence,
so turbulent is the sound,
that slap slaps on the nerves,
till aggravation does rouse within,
and bring forth the beast within.
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