There’s no such thing as a lonely cloud
Wandering round here
They’ve all got friends and relatives
Bringing up the rear
And as for hosts of Daffodils
They’ve all been picked by tourists
Who spent too much on waterproofs
To afford a bloody florists
There used to be so many
That Billy wrote a poem
About the thousands he could see
When he used to roam
There’s plenty though, in the yards
Of rich aristocrats
But it won’t be long ‘til they’re cut down
To make way for holiday flats.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem