The Troop Ship Poem by Isaac Rosenberg
The Troop Ship
Rating: ★2.5
Grotesque and queerly huddled
Contortionists to twist
The sleepy soul to a sleep,
We lie all sorts of ways
And cannot sleep.
The wet wind is so cold,
And the lurching men so careless,
That, should you drop to a doze,
Winds' fumble or men's feet
Are on your face.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Topic(s) of this poem: sleep
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8/13/2026 10:45:08 PM # rel_20260813T193622Z_3aad590
