Lawrence Hall
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Dispatches for the Colonial Office

                                            I’ll Try Again Tomorrow

The day was sour, and so were my poor words
Poor words written against our ******* regime
Words so inadequate that I ripped them down
And pitched them into the compost of philosophy

There to decay properly and be rebuilt
To fling against armored limousines
And maybe rattle an oligarch or two
Who sneer at us as but their petting zoo

The day was sour, and so was my poor verse
Useless, counter-productive, and worse