See that satan pollarding a tree,
That geometric man straightening a road:
Surely such passions are perverse and odd
That violate windows and set the north wind free.
No doubt tomorrow the world will be too straight.
Five hundred miles an hour will churn our dreams
Like surprised whales, when we lie a dead weight
In an ignorant sleep, and things will be what they seem.
Tomorrow we will hear on the gramophone
The music of the Spheres, registered H.M.V.
By a divorced contralto: we shall perhaps
Meet Adam under glass in a museum
Fleshless and most unlovely, complete with pedigree.
Or else, tomorrow, workers, kings and crooks
Will all have aeroplanes and be fast friends,
In a world no longer divided by dividends,
Where love will be almost as simple as it looks.
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Comments about this poem (Progression by Francis Scarfe )
- Once summer comes, Edgar Stevenson
- My Address, gajanan mishra
- With dogs and rats, Aftab Alam
- If I Were A Child, Randy McClave
- Who Wilt Preach?, Sir Toby
- Uncle Ikey's Last Words No.43, Robert Graber
- A Balance Of Opinion, Richard Provencher
- Till You Come, micheal john
- The Thing Betwixt The Ears, Buxton Shippy
- Going To Heaven, Tony Adah