Patrick McAuley

© Patrick McAuley 2006

The Kashmir Sweater

Has been a while, my dairies kept,

Sick I’ve been, you must accept.

The worth of writing to describe,

The thoughts and fears I have inside,

Meant less to me than making sense

Of why it is I take offence,

At being cloaked, in Kashmir sweaters,

Coats and scarves that would look better,

On the poor sheep that was denied,

The right to feel quite warm inside,

And has not the Stirling, to catch a bus,

To retrieve the stolen items,

Thus, the cold it must endure the same,

As winters arse is bare again.

So now he, who for which I am aggrieved,

As the flu caught mine, what was achieved?

A naked sheep and not much else,

That and failure in my health.

To fight infection with the aid,

Of a Kashmir sweater, for which I paid,

A handsome sum it should be said.

But as I lye hear in my bed,

A point there is to this ode

For if you wish not to catch a cold,

Do not let yourself be duped

By a salesman in a fancy three piece suit.