The writing, on the carton,
At the breakfast table,
Tells me that,
The liquid contained therein
Comes from fruit,
That has been grown
In sun drenched groves.
The wind’s howling changes pitch,
And I look out of the window
At a grove that is just drenched,
And only drenched,
And drenched again,
As another Atlantic gale blows in;
But I thank god or fate,
That I wasn’t born
A century ago,
Because I could have been
Getting well drenched in a trench.
