On a bleak day I lay in the bleak sheets
Eight stories above the puddles in the streets
Where the rain jumped, and the cars were ill:
Everybody in Paris swallowed some kind of pill
In the hope that what the doctor said was just because
He was a sort of negative Santa Claus.
Our anxiety, our numerous internal disasters
Would surely be repaired by duly applied plasters.
And chemistry – for wasn’t this the age of belief
In time released, targeted relief?
I peered out the window, I stretched my eyes to see
Something that didn’t strike me as old or filthy
(sometimes it is like that. A girl’s education
In cleaning up extends at times to the whole nation).
Another party girl, I thought, goes down the drain
-I’d feel oh so much better if it wasn’t for this rain!