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Writing

An Ode to Not Being in ExCel

From out of my window I can see,

a blackbird, a blue tit, and clouds as free,

as I am not,

Oh woe is me.

 

But I’m lucky to have a roof over my head,

A floor under my feet,

And walls,

That reach completely.

 

To the edge of the room,

And bordering the street,

I’m all for social-distancing,

That’s all-right by me.

 

I’m sat here right now,

Thinking all sorts of thoughts,

How the world is all bent out, messed up,

And me?

 

I’m sat here, still breathing,

So lucky is me,

Not to be at that new bird-named place,

Out London easterly.

 

In these hard times, it’s easy,

to get low with your woes,

But you have to remember,

you can still feel your toes.

 

If you’re not coughing and hotting,

All over the place,

You have reason to be cheerful,

ExCel won’t be your resting place.

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